


Small Monsters

by magnificent



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3
Genre: Abuse, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, F/M, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Fluffy Ending, Healing, I promise, LW is a yandere, Mental Instability, it'll get better by the end, wow this is pretty damn dark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-09
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-30 01:27:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 40,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8513482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magnificent/pseuds/magnificent
Summary: Fawkes never imagined that he would meet another monster, let alone one wrapped in the shape of a young woman with sapphire eyes. He's lost his humanity, and she's lost her beloved. Together, maybe they can figure out how to repair their broken lives.





	1. Once Upon a Dream

Jericho licks the dust off of his lips as he shades the sun from his eyes. In the distance, he can see an aged sign cheerfully proclaiming, “Paradise Falls”. The thick billboard paper is peeling, held in place only by the miracle of pre-War workmanship.

Truth be told, he's not sure if he should be here. However many years of raiding as he'd had, he's _quit._ And he's an old man. He wouldn't be here at all if he weren't desperate.

It had begun years ago, and he had hardly noticed it at first: the fact that he was getting soft. It came down to women, like it always did, and he knew that pretty girls would be the death of him. Like how Jenny Stahl had almost gotten him killed—well, how his _interest_ in her had almost killed him. If he'd actually succeeded in pinning her to the outer wall of Megaton that late night so many years ago, he probably wouldn't be here.

His fondness for her had never abated, though, although he had gotten enough experience to know not to try anything like that again. His main attentions had shifted to Nova— _god_ was she beautiful. Instant that lady walked into town, he'd had his eye on her. Especially when that ass Moriarty had enslaved her. After a few weeks he'd offered to take her away from the bastard, but she'd refused every time.

Bitch. Now that the old git had finally kicked the bucket, she'd thought it was all well and good to ignore him left and right. He'd asked to _marry_ her of all things, something that he'd never thought he'd want or live long enough to do.

And now, that longing for a woman who pays attention to him has landed him at Paradise Falls.

Jericho doesn't know what he intends to do once he actually has a woman, but he figures that the only way to get one to stick around will be to buy one.

“Hey, you. You don't look like you got business.”

Jericho spits, glaring at the guy manning the entry defenses. “An' you don't look like you got the brains to be speaking, but here we are.”

“Hah,” the man growls, anything but amused. “Look, we don't really trust outsiders here. You want in, you gotta have someone vouch for you, or you make it worth my while.”

“I can vouch for myself,” Jericho sneers. “Jericho, named after the city of sin. That name may not mean much anymore, but a few decades ago I brought over a dozen slaves in here myself.”

“Oh, is that so?” the man shoots back, just as dangerously. “Then you'd know at least someone here who'd speak for you. Give me some names.”

Jericho grunts, searching in the back of his mind for the old names that he's long forgotten. “Ymir. He still around?”

“Yeah. Friend of my old man,” he says grudgingly.

“No shit! You're Harmon Jurley's kid?” Jericho is surprised. That guy was crazier than a pack of feral ghouls, but he paid well and had taken a liking to Jericho. He didn't remember doing anything to make the psychopathic leader of the slavers friendly with him, but that's not something he'd ever question.

“Yeah... I am. You knew my dad?”

“Fuck, kid, I helped him recruit guards for this shithole back in the day,” Jericho says, wonderingly. Amazing how the years go by. He doesn't feel old, unless he allows himself to be aware of the aches in his joints, but oh, how the world has changed without him. He looks at the man with fresh eyes. “You must be Grouse, then.”

“Mm,” he says. “Guess you really do belong here. Hey, sorry about earlier. Never know what people are aiming to do when they wander up.”

“I'm looking to buy today,” Jericho says. “Female, preferably young. You know if there are any in that might be good?”

Grouse raises an eyebrow. “Bleak's the only woman we have. Unless you're a ghoulfucker, and I didn't peg you for one.”

Jericho spits. “Don't be disgusting.”

“Mm. Go check out Bleak, then. Although... since you have history with us, maybe you'll want to speak to Eulogy Jones. He's the guy who killed my old man... no hard feelings though. He runs the show now, and he's got a small harem of young dames who've caught his interest. You might be able to get one from him, if you play your cards right.”

“Huh,” Jericho grunts. “Thanks. I'll check them out.”

“Good luck,” Grouse says. “And make sure you keep your guns away. Eulogy won't hesitate to have you shot if you look the least bit threatening.”

With that in mind, he starts up the familiar pathway to Paradise Falls. A slave fleeing out of the open gate explodes—a man curses loudly and Jericho ignores both the slaver and the bits of corpse splattered across the ground.

 _New security measures,_ he thinks. _Paradise Falls is moving up in the world._

He spends a few moments looking around, and then finds his feet taking him towards the bar, an old muscle memory. He is lost in thought, thinking about the good old days, and pondering the smallest regrets—the many people that he killed in cold blood, and worse yet, the ones that he brought to this very place.

But that's how the world works. Jericho has always been a man of necessity, and looking after number one—that was always his first priority. And with most of those fuckers, they would have gotten snatched up by other slavers at some point anyway. Better him taking them and getting the caps than someone else.

 _Slam._ Jericho is pulled from his thoughts by the sound of a skull smashing.

“Ymir,” he calls.

“Ah!” the huge man roars. “If it isn't my good friend Jericho! I had not thought that I would see you again! You look well!”

“You too, you damn crazy bastard,” Jericho grunts, shaking the slaver's hand. “Good to see you again.”

“Yes, indeed! What are you doing here again, after all these years?”

“Looking for something pretty and warm,” Jericho says, crossing his arms. “Town prostitute quit. She was the only real reason why I stayed there all the time, anyway.”

Ymir grins, “Aha! I see! You always liked your whiskey with a side of woman.”

Jericho leers, pleased to be back with his people. _How could I have thought I wouldn't belong here anymore?_ “Damn right. I get plenty when travelers pass through, but... I'd like something a little more permanent.”

“You have gone soft,” Ymir rumbles, teasing. Jericho smiles, but his insides feel cold. As much as he likes this place, these people, he imagines that some of the other activities they do might be a little harder for him now. Killing innocents. Robbing caravans blind. Since living with the shitty little cowards at Megaton, he has developed a small amount of fondness for them, and... he worries that he might begin to see those people in the wastelanders of the Capitol.

“Where does Jones live?” Jericho asks instead, and Ymir points.

“You are looking to buy one of his girls?”

“Maybe.”

“They are sweet ladies,” Ymir says demurely. “Not like _this_ bitch.”

The latter is timed to the arrival of a young woman with a bitter smile on her face.

“Carolina Red, meet my good friend Jericho.”

Red sneers. “Disgusting. You think I care about who your friends are?”

“Hah,” Ymir sighs. “Someday, one of my friends may be sensible enough to shoot you where you stand, and then what will happen?”

Jericho leaves Carolina Red and Ymir to their bickering, and investigates the building across the path. It was Jurley's place, too, so he supposes that it is only natural that this new _Eulogy Jones_ has decided to live there as well.

Inside, it is warm and dark. It smells like sex and leather, and Jericho takes in the huge bed in the center of the room. Easily could fit a man and a couple of ladies. He's envious for a few moments, and then his thoughts are interrupted when a fold of the thick coverlet shifts, and a woman as slender as a willow sapling sits up. He raises his eyebrows when he hears the metallic chime of clinking chains. She is imprisoned, the bed her cell, despite the slave collar on her neck.

Her eyes are large, too big for her face, but they are hard and hungry. Angry and wild, every inch of her filled with a burning tension.

It is the face of a woman about to snap.

 


	2. Someday My Prince Will Come

I hear the man before I see him, unfamiliar footsteps across the floor. It isn't unusual for people to disturb Mr. Eulogy's house, but the slow steps, the sudden pause, they tip me off that this is a different sort of interruption.

I sit up wearily, the fever straining my body, and I look at him with flushed cheeks.

“Who are you?” the stranger at the foot of the bed asks.

“Cara,” I say, my voice soft.

“Why are you chained up like that?”

“Because I was bad,” I whisper back.

I watch him with detached curiosity. It is not very often that strangers wander into Mr. Eulogy's home, but I could care less. The only thing—person or otherwise—that I really care about is Mr. Eulogy himself.

I love Mr. Eulogy.

He is interesting to look at, though, since I've never seen him before. He is an older man, about the same age as Ymir, if I had to guess, with a bald head and thick lines across his face. He wears black raider's armor, and has a rifle slung over his back.

“Huh. Is your owner around?” He glances from side to side, as if Mr. Eulogy's gonna pop up out of the covers, too.

“You can quit the interrogation,” a voice calls, and my heart speeds up. My hands sweat, and I clutch the chains around my wrists with both hands. _Mr. Eulogy._ I look down, suddenly shy. _I shouldn't have been speaking to him without permission. I've been told that. I_ always _need permission._

It looks like I'm in trouble. Again.

“The name's Eulogy Jones, and welcome to my slice of heaven. Whether you're looking to buy or sell, well... look no further. We have anything you could ever want right here. Now, what can I do for you?”

“Both Grouse and Ymir said that you may be willing to part with one of your girls,” the stranger says, and my heart drops. _No._ “Is this all of them?”

“Mm. My two constants, Clover and Crimson, and my most recent, Carousel.”

“Carou...sel?”

Mr. Eulogy chuckles. “I figured, I already had a girl named to bring me luck, and another for my favorite color... I might as well have one named after an, hm, _easy ride."_

 _No,_ I think again, mentally pleading with my darling, and I make eye contact with Clover. She looks as unbothered as ever, but Crimson's eyes are wide. Both of us are terrified that today... today might be the day that he sells us. Clover looks unbothered just because she isn't quite as insecure as the rest of us, plus she's a real bitch. She thinks she's better than us just because she can act tough.

“Clover'll be three thousand caps, 'cause I like her, and Crimson is two thousand, same as Carousel.”

The stranger whistles. “Damn, what makes them worth so much?”

“They're well-trained,” Mr. Eulogy says with a laugh. “Cara's still an ongoing project, being so new, but she's almost completely broken in. I'd wager that she'll be ready to go. See, these girls are crazy. And I'm somewhat of an expert in crazy girls. Crazy in a fight, crazy in the sack, crazy every which way but loose! But most of all, crazy in love with whoever's holding the leash. And, for that small sum of caps, any one of these ladies could be crazy for you.”

“Not necessarily looking for it to go to that extent. But I ain't saying no to that kind of loyalty.”

“Haha, smart man! I like you. So, what'll it be? You have the caps, or not?”

“I have them,” the stranger says. “I'm just not sure about which one I want.”

My grip on the chains tightens. _No!_

Whether or not we want it, one of us is leaving with this man today.

“What... hm, _features_ are you looking for?” Mr. Eulogy asks slyly. “I selected each of these ladies to be mine because they each have their strengths and weaknesses. Whichever you're interested in, one of them is bound to suit.”

“Always been partial to big tits.”

Mr. Eulogy laughs again, and I sigh in relief, allowing a vindictive smile to creep across my face. I've got the smallest boobs out of anyone in the room, guaranteed. I'm roughly as flat-chested as a prepubescent boy. _I get to stay!_

“Clover's got a good rack,” he says appreciatively, and my jubilation sours as he praises my bedmate. “And she's a hell of a shot."

"So you have all of them trained in fighting, too?"

"For the most part, yes. Crimson's a good fighter, Clover is the best--fast and strong. Carousel, though... she's still got to prove herself before I start training her.”

"Sounds like she hasn't got much going for her," he says, looking at me.

"I wouldn't say that. She's a sweet girl. Gentle. Fragile. Rare traits out in the wasteland. Plus, she's educated, and unblemished."

The stranger starts at that. "What do you mean?"

Mr. Eulogy turns me roughly and lifts my shirt, showing him my back. I shiver against the cold air, rest my cheek against his forearm. "No scars--not a single one. Lived a very sheltered life before we caught her. There are plenty of men who fetish-ize these characteristics.  _That's_ why you'll still have to pay full-price for her."

“Huh,” the stranger says again, gawking at us, and I take the moment to tug at Mr. Eulogy's sleeve.

He leans in, humoring me, and my poor heart thrills to have my lover so close to me. At this moment, all of his attention is focused on me, and I am ecstatic.

“Mr. Eulogy, please don't sell me,” I whisper. “I don't wanna go with him. I love you.”

“Did I allow you to speak?” he asks, and I flinch. “Shut your fucking mouth.”

I tremble, my hand falling away from him. I want... I want so badly to be alone with my owner, to devote myself to him in my entirety. But Mr. Eulogy is real careful about setting up rules and limitations. I wish sometimes that I didn't love him so much, or else I might remember what he told me to do.

“What'd she do to get put there, anyway?”

“You mean chained up? Eh. The girls fight sometimes. Carousel and Crimson decided that they would gang up on Clover, and started upsetting her. I put an end to it, but Carousel is a lot more determined.”

“Doesn't sound much like an 'easy ride' to me,” the stranger quips.

“I call her easy 'cause she's the most physical of the bunch,” Mr. Eulogy says. “Always the most interested in me, to the extent that she'll get mean and catty with the other girls. If you pick her, you'll have a hard time getting out of bed in the morning.”

He laughs, and I pout.

“Clover, on the other hand, she likes killin' too much. She'll want you to be up and ready to go hunt something down. Crimson's a solid in-between.”

“How old are they?”

“Twenty-six, twenty-eight, and nineteen.”

The stranger pauses, his eyes on me. “She's that old?”

“Mm, doesn't look it, huh? I'm no fan of little boys, but a woman her age with her looks is worth a fortune to the right person. I took her in because of that, tamed her. Well. _Taming_ her, rather.”

“And how do you do that?”

“Mix of isolation and torture,” Mr. Eulogy says, and I sigh. He makes it sound so crude. It wasn't all that bad—in fact, it was necessary for him to help me realize my place in life. I needed him by my side, needed him to guide me. I would _thank_ him for what he did, beg him to do it over again if I had to.

Anything that gets Mr. Eulogy's attention on me is what I want.

“After a few weeks of isolation, the girls start looking forward to you coming to bring them food. Eventually you switch to feeding them by hand. That's what makes them dependent.”

“So, which is the, uh, _least_ crazy?”

“Crimson.”

“And the other girl, Cara, she's second?”

“Mhm.”

“I think I might want her.”

My heart plummets, and I scrabble back away from this man, who has suddenly become so terrifying. “No! Mr. Eulogy—you _can't!”_

“Shut up, bitch!” my master snaps. “I'll sell you off when I damn well please!”

“I don't want to go with him!” I wail. “I only love you, I swear! I'll never be bad again! _Please!”_

Mr. Eulogy strikes me across the face, and I fall to my knees on the bed, gasping. Tears well up in my eyes. I'm not sure whether I'm crying out of pain or joy. The fact that I was hit hard enough to leave a mark causes a strange sensation in my stomach, a rush of pleasure. Marked as his own.

“One thousand, five hundred,” the stranger says, watching me.

“Deal,” Mr. Eulogy says, and his hands fiddle about at the clasp on his neck. “This,” he says, showing the stranger a bronze pendant, “is what I call her _leash._ She'll obey anyone who's got this on.”

I am silent, my pulse pounding, and I am helpless as my master trades my life away for one thousand and five hundred caps. The tiny bronze pendant, a miniature horse rearing, is fixed around the stranger's neck after a few fumbled attempts.

He... he _owns_ me now.

Mr. Eulogy unlocks my chains, and opens the latch on my slave collar. “This'll let you take her outside Paradise Falls. Good luck.”

 


	3. A Dream is a Wish Your Heart Makes

Jericho watches the girl stand up and stretch. Her eyes are the color of sapphires, so dark to appear almost purple. To be honest, it was those eyes that had him sold on her. So large, so expressive. Her limbs are skeletal-thin, and her black hair is cut short. If it weren't for her beautiful, creamy complexion and strawberry-red lips, she could easily be mistaken for a young boy.

Carousel crawls across the bed towards him, her movements oddly innocent, and stops at the edge. He sees her staring at the bronze metal on his chest, even as Eulogy Jones exits the room and goes upstairs.

“What's your name, darling?” she breathes, and Jericho starts at the wrongness of her demeanor. She's nothing but a sliver of seduction, a stark contrast to her behavior minutes ago.

“Jericho,” he says.

“Jericho,” she sighs, and he feels his pulse thudding below the belt. Now _this_ is what he wanted.

If only it were Nova or Jenny murmuring his name with that sort of voice.

“Are you ready to go?” he asks, eyeing her. Carousel is dressed only in a set of blue silk pajamas, tiny shorts that could fit a doll, and a camisole whose straps are too large to hold onto her frame. The left strap slips down her shoulder.

“Yes,” Cara whispers, and stands. She is barely five feet tall, and she is barefoot, her tiny feet just as skinny and bony as the rest of her. She looks starved, like a wraith.

“No shoes?”

“I don't have any,” she says, her voice as soft as the kiss of an evening breeze. “Anything here belongs to Mr. Eulogy.”

“I guess I'll buy you some, then. Uh, since you belong to me now.” His voice is stilted and awkward, unsure of what to think of this strange girl. As much slaving as he'd done in the glory days, he'd never actually _owned_ one.

“Oh, yes,” she moans, and the erotic sound makes Jericho's pants uncomfortably tight. “I belong to you.”

“Mm,” he grunts. “Follow me.”

The girl sticks so tight to him, she almost steps on his heels. It makes him nervous, having someone so close, especially someone he's just met, but he doesn't correct her. He'd rather get her back to Megaton before he starts retraining her.

Jericho tells the girl to pick out some proper clothes, and a weapon. She obeys dreamily, choosing the first pair of boots that fit, and a rifle.

Then, as she's browsing through the merchant's shop, looking through stacks of clothing in lockers, she makes a choked sound. He looks up just as Cara reels back, shaking, apparently horrified by what she'd found.

There, at the bottom of the locker, is a brightly-colored jumpsuit with the numbers _101_ emblazoned on the back. A funky old machine sits beside it.

“What's wrong?” Jericho asks.

“I...” she whispers, and then clutches her arms to her sides. “I had forgotten.”

“Huh?”

Slowly, she slides the machine up her left arm, where at last there's a click and a low whirr, as if something is burrowing into her skin. The machine lights up, and starts reading off all kinds of data.

“No shit,” Jericho grunts. “You're a vault girl?”

He knew of Vault 101, of course, living so close to it, but he'd only ever heard of someone coming out, never thinking he'd actually meet a former resident.

“I'm twenty,” she murmurs, more herself than to him, staring at the data on the screen. “I've been here over a year, and I never even knew it.”

Jericho isn't surprised. Being a slave, having been brought to Paradise Falls and tortured for god knows how long, he can see how she would have lost track of time.

Then Cara's eyes glaze over, and she says, “Mr. Jericho? Can I have this? Please?”

“I'll pay for it,” he agrees, although he hadn't intended for his slave to leave with something so garishly bright.

She steps into the vault suit and zips up the front. Tilts her head, looking down at herself. Jericho wonders what she sees... a fragment of her old life? Or could it just be clothing to her and nothing else? Her placid smile shows none of the emotion it had held before. Perhaps, he thinks, she sees nothing at all.

“I'll round it down to two hundred caps for the lot,” Cutter says, and Jericho suspects that he's rounding _up,_ not down. But he agrees anyway.

 

* * *

 

 

The vault suit is too loose. I knew that I'd lost weight since being in Paradise Falls, but I had no idea that it was _this_ much. Mr. Eulogy had said it was because I was still coming out of my starvation phase, the final part of my conditioning, but the combination of drugs and isolation had made the days blur together. I hadn't realized I'd lost so much weight. Not until I was in my old suit, anyway.

Mr. Jericho walks beside me, and I admire how the sunlight slants across his face, shadows deepening his permanent scowl. He isn't handsome like Mr. Eulogy, but he's got his own charm, with that gruff harshness and the occasionally stumbling words.

“Do you have other slaves?” I ask.

“No,” he says.

“Good.” A huge smile breaks out across my face. Finally. No more competing for my master's love... Mr. Jericho is all mine. And no goddamn Clover or Crimson is ever gonna get between us. “You ain't buyin' more, are you?”

“No,” he says again, and I twirl, exultant. I raise my arms to the sky and take in a deep breath. I'm about to start cooing racy things to him, but he continues, “Look, uh... would you ever want to be... free?”

I tilt my head, not comprehending. “What do you mean?”

“Awh, shit,” Jericho mutters, and then confesses, “It was a stupid idea anyway, but I, uh, I wanted to go to Paradise Falls to find a good woman. Not just the tits and ass part, but I like girls with a soft side. And I had this half-brained plan to take a woman outta there and then wife 'em.”

I'm honestly not sure what I should say to that.

“But with you bein' messed with like that, it kinda throws a wrench in my plans.”

“Why?”

“I'd rather not have a slave, I guess,” Mr. Jericho says, scratching the back of his head. “Just wanted a woman to sleep with. Cook for me. Would be a bonus to find one that would kill raiders with me, too.”

I smile, looking up at him through my lashes. “Baby, I can do all those things and _more.”_

“Goddamn,” Jericho mutters, and I catch him fumbling with his waistband, trying to relieve the pressure on his rapidly-hardening member. I touch his arm and he stops, his eyes fixed on me, and I take that as a sign that he wants me to continue.

My hand runs up his chest, admiring the strength I feel beneath his clothing, and then onto the slope of his back.

“Would you like to rest here?” I whisper, although I don't intend for anything that we do together to be restful.

“It... uh, we'd better wait until Megaton,” he growls, brushing past me. I watch him, crestfallen, and then hurry to catch up. He's muttering something about not being 'so desperate he'd fuck in mole rat country'.

“Is that where we are going?” I ask, only interested because it sounds like that's where I'm finally going to be allowed to sleep with him.

“Yeah, it's where I live. Decent town. Good defenses.”

I wonder what kind of defenses _Jericho_ has. What physical boundaries he has, what I might be able to do in order to win his love and attention.

Hesitantly, I take hold of his arm and he looks at me but does not say anything. We walk together like that, my slender fingers clutching his sleeve, being led by my master deep into the wasteland.

 

* * *

 

 

Mr. Jericho is greeted by a dark-skinned man near the entrance of Megaton, who gives me a long look before saying, “Glad to have you back. Who's this young lady?”

“Cara,” he says shortly. “She'll be staying with me from now on.”

“Mm,” the man says, looking at us both very carefully. I don't like the feel of his eyes on me, so I step behind Jericho, peeking out at the stranger only occasionally. “She's from the vault?”

“Apparently,” my master says. “I found her with a bunch of slavers and, uh, _liberated_ her.”

“Is that true?” the stranger asks, trying to catch my eye. “Something's not right about her. I ain't sayin' that it's your fault, Jericho, but she looks like she's been through a lot. You may want to take her to Doc Church, make sure she's not on anything.”

“Mentats,” Mr. Jericho says. “Yeah, I noticed too, Sheriff. I ain't a goddamn idiot.”

“Just don't be taking advantage of her,” the sheriff warns. “I don't want that kind of trouble in my town.”

Jericho mutters something and then leads me to a rusted shack, leaving me to look around as he unlocks the door and steps inside.

“What are you doing? Come on,” he grumbles, and I follow him eagerly. The inside of Mr. Jericho's house feels right for him, filled with empty whiskey bottles and grit. A refrigerator without a door serves as a small pantry, and a dirty bare mattress is the only bedding in the room.

My eyes stay fixed on the mattress.

“Fuck, you really are an easy girl,” Mr. Jericho mutters as I slip out of my vault suit, leaving it on the floor where it falls. I sit down on the bed, and turn to look at him pleadingly.

“Now?” I beg.

“Mm,” he grunts, unbuckling his belt. “Why're you so eager, anyway? I'm no looker. I don't kid myself, I'm an old man. Lived too long to sugarcoat things.”

“I love you,” I breathe, watching his shirt join my suit on the floor. “I want you. I would die for you.”

“They really screwed with your head, didn't they?” Jericho asks. “Look, as long it's, uh, something you actually want. I made that mistake a long time ago. Told myself I wouldn't do it again.”

“It is!” I murmur. My limbs tremble from exhaustion, but I won't let that stop me—my biggest concern is that I don't know why he's dragging his feet so much. “Your desires are my own. Everything I do is to please you.”

“S'long as you're sure,” my master says, fully nude. His eyes rake over me, and I smile, victorious. I lay back against the beaten old pillow and slip my camisole over my head.

Mr. Jericho growls, fully erect, and strips my shorts off roughly. It isn't any longer than a few seconds before he's pressing against my core, trying to force his way inside. He's doing it without lube and a delightful shiver races down my spine, my breath catching from excitement as I imagine the chafing soreness I will feel tomorrow.

I open my legs wider, straddling his hips, and a moan drifts from my mouth as I feel his entry. His breath is coming in hard gasps now, the scent of cigarette smoke hot against my face. His hips start moving, pumping his hard length in and out of my body, and I cry out in pain and pleasure. He's rough, too rough, but he doesn't strike me for my loudness.

My master's eyes are fixed onto my face, his hips thrusting faster and faster. His attention is solely on myself, and I delightedly adjust the angle of my pelvis, thrilled. My master is mine alone, and it is a novel experience to not have any other girls in the bed while I am pleasured.

I let out another loud cry, gauging his reaction, and I'm astonished when he slows down enough to run a calloused thumb over my cheek. “You like that?” he growls.

“Yes,” I sigh. “Yes.”

 _Mr. Eulogy hated it when I voiced my excitement._ He had a number of different reasons why, but I feel incredibly lucky to have been sold to a man who values me enough to not only let me be vocal, but to go as far as asking if I'm happy.

My hands explore his body as he groans and thrusts, in awe of him. My panting reaches a fever pitch, and all at once I climax, pulling his hips hard against myself: _“Master!”_

“Nova,” he moans, and he releases his seed into me.

 


	4. So This is Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uwaaaah I forgot to update this! I promised it on Thursday, and lo and behold, it is 12:20 AM. Dammit.
> 
> Have a late chapter, and a good night. ^^

Over the next few weeks, Mr. Jericho and I settle into an easy routine. He teaches me to fight and shoot, and I teach him _exactly_ what Mr. Eulogy and the girls trained me to do in bed. He still calls Nova's name sometimes, but by now, it's mixed in with my own. I should be more irked with him, but since he isn't even going to visit this _Nova_ woman, I don't mind terribly.

I wonder about them, sometimes. Their history. It makes me burn up inside, with all sorts of nasty things--fury and jealousy, envy and hatred for that buxom woman a few years my senior. Mr. Jericho's never said anything about her, not really, just a few comments that only make me more curious. But anytime I ask, he diverts the question into something else.

He never wants to talk about his history with the women of the town, even though I see the way that they look at him. Mostly with suspicion, and dread, but occasionally I'll see a woman give him a coy glance as she walks by, and the hatred wells up inside of me again.

Fortunately, my master has taken a little bit more of an interest in me, and I am less hateful of the other women, and more mocking instead, proud to call this man my owner and my lover.

“Why'd you leave the vault?” Jericho asks one evening.

I shrug. “My daddy left me. I tried to follow him.”

Best to keep it simple.

“Guess that didn't work out so well, huh? How long did it take for slavers to get you?”

“They were right outside the vault,” I say, with a shrug, my eyes downcast. “They were just passing through, but when they saw me... they decided that I might be worth the trouble.”

I pick at my tin of Cram, feeling uncomfortable. I don't like talking about the past. Those memories are from a different person—a virgin girl, a sheltered doctor's daughter. They're not the memories of Carousel. There's a sharp split between the two, and I don't want to think about anything before I was renamed.

Mr. Jericho only grunts.

“I like living here better anyway,” I say, smiling at my master.

“I'm glad,” he says. “You're a sweet girl.”

I laugh. “Keep on talking like that, and I'm gonna have to drag you back to bed.”

“That a promise?” he challenges.

“Mm. And you know I'd never break a promise to you, Mr. Jericho.”

“I've told you before, you can drop the formalities.”

I shake my head. “Mr. Eulogy brought me up better than that. You're my master, so I have to respect you.”

“Huh. Funny, you never seem to respect my personal space.”

I giggle. “That's different, lover.”

And it is. It was the one thing that Mr. Eulogy could never train out of me—being too clingy, too desperate for attention. Fortunately, it doesn't bother Jericho too much. He yells at me, cusses me out, but once he reaches his breaking point, he resets after a few hours and is nothing but smooth words and roaming hands.

Jericho smiles, standing up from the table. “So, Miss Vault Girl, you ever hear of a place called Vault 87?”

I shake my head.

“Couple of traders mentioned it the other day. Talking about it like it was something out of a living hell. Filled with Super Mutants and god knows what else. And,” Jericho adds, “treasure.”

My eyes widen. “Treasure? What kind?”

“No one knows,” he says with a devilish grin, “because no one's come out of there alive to tell.”

“Let me guess,” I purr. “You wanna go on some wild journey again, find the treasure, and bring home all kinds of fame and fortune?”

“And liquor,” Jericho says. “Gotta be alcohol involved, or it just ain't worth it.”

I laugh, excited. _A real adventure!_ Jericho's mentioned taking me out on excursions before, but we've never really gone anywhere in particular. Mostly just up to Bigtown or Andale and back. We've killed Super Mutants before, but the thought of delving into a terrifying Vault filled with the monsters makes me shiver with excitement.

“When are we going?” I ask, bouncing in my seat.

“What, you actually want to go?” Jericho snorts.

“Yes!”

“Think it might be too dangerous,” he says. “I'm not as young as I used to be.”

I pout. “You have me now. Ain't I enough to keep you safe?”

Jericho pauses. “Eh... s'true, having another set of eyes improves chances by a lot. But going right into their nest? Just sounds damn suicidal to me.”

“You brought it up,” I accuse. “That means we have to go.”

“You're so demanding,” he sighs. “Alright, we can at least scope it out. But if shit hits the fan, we're out of there, okay?”

“Yay!” I cry, leaping out of my seat. “I _love_ killing things with you. An' I was just starting to get bored, sitting at home all day.”

Jericho snorts. “You're always bored, unless you're killing or fucking. Well, you know the drill. Get our bags together and we can reach Bigtown by evening.”

“Yessir!” I'm skipping as I gather provisions. Cram, mostly—it's Mr. Jericho's favorite food. Dandy Boy Apples are there as a snack, and I remember to pack his purified water and cigarettes. He would be _pissed_ if I forgot the latter.

My master is sitting at the table as I work, cleaning his gun one last time before we go. I smile at him fondly as I zip up the bag. I still have to collect our spare clothes and ammo, but surely he won't mind if I stop to admire him?

His rough hands move over his rifle with breath-taking dexterity, and the look of concentration on his face pinches the corners of his mouth down. He's an older man, of course, but he's so strong and masculine that I don't care; I love everything about him.

Jericho glances up. “Hey, what are you doing? Get a move on.”

I stand gracefully, running a hand over his shoulders as I pass by him. “Just taking the time to appreciate you,” I say teasingly. “Is that a problem?”

“No, but I thought you'd tire of it after the first ten hours,” Jericho mumbles.

“Don't sell yourself short,” I say. “After all, who else would have taken the time to help me through my withdrawal from Mentats?”

And it's true. Doc Church had little pity for me, even though Mr. Eulogy had forced me to take the pills every few days, in order to keep me doped up and dependent. It was Jericho who had nursed me through the shakes and fevers, who'd helped me gain a little bit of my weight back.

I owe him my life. As much as I loved Mr. Eulogy, it is easier for me to love Jericho, who does not strike me or hurt me. I annoy him sometimes, sure, and it hurts when he snaps at me or makes me stay in the bedroom while he drinks, but he doesn't hit me, and I am grateful. And he doesn't go after other women, even if he stares at them.

It is more than I deserve.

“All done, boss,” I say cheerfully, as I drop his pack on the floor beside the provisions. “Are you ready? Can we go now?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Jericho groans. “God, you're insistent.”

I giggle. I've been called that quite a bit.

Jericho picks up the heavier pack, with our spare clothes, and allows me to carry the provisions. I shrug it onto my back with a grateful smile. _Such a gentleman._

“Got your rifle?” he asks shortly.

“Oh!” I drop my bag and hurry to retrieve it.

“Goddamn,” Jericho groans. “Empty-headed bitch! If I weren't here, you'd be liable to walk out of the house without your clothes on.”

Well, he's not wrong... I've caught myself about to do that a few times, but fortunately I'm self-aware enough to stop myself from stepping outside.

“I'm ready now!” I announce.

“Did you pack my cigarettes?” he demands.

“Mhm!”

“Then we're good to go. Can probably do without anything else, s'long as we have our weapons.”

Jericho locks the door behind us, and I skip around happily as I wait for him.

“Mr. Jericho,” I ask, looking at the house beside his, “why doesn't anyone live beside you?”

This whole time that I've lived with him, the old home has been abandoned. It looks pretty huge, too, so I kinda wish that we could move next door instead.

Jericho shrugs. “Been empty as long as I can remember. There's some old tech in there, but that's about all I know. Apparently one of the bigwigs who belonged to the Church of Atom back in the day built it. It's been empty ever since they died, and stayed that way.”

“Why can't we ask Lucas Simms if we can live there instead?” I ask wistfully.

Jericho snorts. “Yeah, and waste a place like that on me? Forget it, baby doll, they'd never let an old washed-up raider live in such a nice place.”

“But you're rich,” I point out. And it's true. He's _really_ wealthy from all of our trips out into the wasteland, and now that that dumb bitch Nova isn't seeing him anymore, he doesn't have to waste his caps on that hussy.

“Status plays into it too,” Jericho says. “Simms is probably saving it for the chance that a real high-up person decides they want to live here. I know him. First chance he can get someone with a lot of money or value, he'll try to stick them with the house and make them stay.”

“That's mean,” I say. “You've done so much for this shitty town.”

“Tell me about it,” Jericho grunts. “I bust my ass for these guys. Still, it ain't so bad. I get away with more than most people would.”

We would have made good time to Big Town, but Jericho and I travel slowly together, our pace relaxed, as I chatter aimlessly to him. After being so quiet from living with Mr. Eulogy, it seems as though all my words rush out of me in an endless stream—I am incapable of staying silent, deferring to praising Jericho's handsomeness or athleticism when I have nothing else to say.

“Cut it out,” he says as we approach Big Town. “They'll think I'm some kinda pussy if they hear you talking like that.”

I shut my mouth obediently as I skip along the bridge to Big Town, and then cross my arms. The man who stays at the entrance to the town is staring at us, warily, his fingers wrapped around his gun.

I lock eyes with him and cock my head. He is exhausted, his eyes rimmed red and purple, as if he's been awake for the last few days.

“Mr. Jericho,” I pout, “he's _lookin'_ at me again.”

My master sighs. “Dusty, quit scarin' my girl.”

“Not my intention,” the man says, glancing away. He runs a hand over the riot police helmet that I always see him wearing. “Do what you want and then leave. Sooner rather than later. If the Muties spotted you two coming in, they might come back.”

Jericho grunts. “They were here just now?”

“Took Bittercup,” he says, his voice hollow. “It's just me and Kimba left now.”

I frown without sympathy. The Big Town guys have been disappearing rapidly, one every few months. Apparently there used to even be a doctor here, but now... now it's just a ghost town. It might be a good place to live and defend if it weren't for all the Super Mutants.

“Don't suppose you'll take up my offer to go look for them?” Dusty asks hopelessly.

Jericho snorts. “Like I said before, if you got the caps, I'll do the work. If you can't guarantee me 1,000 caps, then I won't do shit. You want to find them for free, then go do it yourself.”

“If they're still alive,” I say. “You'll be lucky if that bitch is still breathing.”

Dusty hangs his head.

“We're gonna crash here,” Jericho says, walking past the watchman. “We'll be gone in the morning.”

I give him a smirk as we pass by, and take Jericho's arm. Dusty's right to think that Jericho could stop those Super Mutants if he wanted to, but it pisses me off that he thinks that he can order my master around. As if Mr. Jericho would actually waste his time on their sorry lives without any kind of payment! It's baffling. Ridiculous.

A long time ago, in another life, when I was a girl in a Vault, I might have thought differently. I might have wanted to help.

But that was before the slavers, and the pain, and the relentless wash of drugs and starvation and loneliness—the sweeping tide that took away everything that had made me James's daughter.

 

 

 


	5. Sing, Sweet Nightingale

“What is this place?”

Mr. Jericho snorts as he watches me teetering on the cracked wood of a broken-down fence. “Yer gonna fall if you keep that up. Didn't you read the sign?”

“Little Lamplight,” I say, lifting my arms. I take another step forward, swaying, and then tumble forward. My hands catch the splintered wood, and momentum takes my lower body into the sky. I hang there for a few moments, my toes pointed at the clouds, and then I allow my legs to drop. Another step, and I skip down from the fence.

“Damn,” Mr. Jericho says. “Didn't know you could do that.”

“Crimson taught me,” I say, “and Mr. Eulogy encouraged me to practice. I was better than the other girls at it.”

And since I can never just leave it at that, I narrow my eyes and smile. “I've spent a lot of hours honing my... flexibility.”

Jericho rolls his eyes, but unfortunately he doesn't do anything else. He's gotten better at resisting me. “There,” he says, pointing. “Looks like that's the entrance. You remember what I told you to do, right?”

“As if I'd forget a word you say,” I tease, but it's not exactly a lie. Each night while I fall asleep, I recite the things that Mr. Jericho has told me to do—my chores and duties. And I recall his actions, the way his eyes drift over my body, the roughness of his hands. The kind words that he's said to me—sometimes I can't come up with anything, but that's okay. And then deeper things. How to act, what to say, who to be.

Mr. Jericho nods. “Alright. Let's go.”

 

“Who the hell are you?” There's a kid, about my size, standing atop a makeshift fort with a gun. He looks as if he should be playing a game, but the expression on his face is very serious. Focused.

“My name's Cara,” I whisper shyly, “and this is my daddy.”

We'd recited this on our way. Mr. Jericho knew that there were bunches of kids in this place, and that they don't like adults. But I look like a kid, and I sound a good bit like one too. And Mr. Jericho is definitely old enough to have fathered me. There's no reason why this boy shouldn't buy our story.

But his expression only hardens. “What are you doing here, then? You have a dad. Get out.”

“I'm dropping her off,” Jericho says, “unless you decide you wanna let us both through.”

“Through?” the boy snorts. “Dumbass. This is a one-way street.”

“Daddy wants to visit Vault 87,” I say innocently.

“Yeah, and get your ass shot off? You know what's in there?”

“Super Mutants,” Jericho says. “Yeah, we know. But that's besides the point. Come on, let us go through, and then we'll be out of your hair.”

“I'm the mayor of Little Lamplight,” the child says imperiously. “Mayor McCready. And I say _no mungos._ Especially not shitheads like you. Dropping off your kid and telling her to go through Murder Pass... are you fucking kidding me?”

I think this boy is charming, in his own way, but I'm furious that he's defying my lover. _No one_ tells Mr. Jericho what to do.

“Listen, you little shit-” I snarl, but Jericho stops me with a hand on my shoulder. Eyes wary and concerned, and vexed that I've broken the 'innocent girl' routine.

Mayor McCready leans against the ramparts. “Hey, what was that? What'd you just call me?”

“A piece of shit,” I snap. “And I'll say it another thousand times if that helps get my point across. Let Daddy and I go through, or I'll cut your fucking head off!”

“Like I'm gonna let that mungo in here?” McCready sneers. “He looks like every other slaver that comes poking his head in here, except that this one's smart enough to bring a kid. I'll play nice, though: the girl can come in, but you, _mungo,_ you can go fuck off.”

Jericho raises an eyebrow, nods at me, and turns his back. “Fuck you too, kid.”

Mr. Jericho trudges away, leaving me alone. I wrap my arms around my chest and look up at the mayor pleadingly, feeling cold. _What am I going to do without my master?_ I wish that the kid would have let him in too... I know it won't be long until we're reunited, but being apart from him is a physical ache.

The gate lifts slowly, the rumblings of its machinations filling the chamber, and I duck in as soon as it's high enough. There's a pause as the mayor ensures that I'm in the whole way, and then the gate slams shut.

I'm really, truly separated from Jericho now.

This might actually be the first time I've been unable to reach a master. That is, since my isolation ended, but ever since then I was always within a short distance of either Jericho or Mr. Eulogy—sometimes the latter would leave on business, but I could rest assured knowing that he was always just outside the house. And in my earliest days, Mr. Eulogy used to parade me around with him, even on business, keeping me collared and leashed, with a thin golden chain that he held in his hand. Exotic. Thrilling.

He was so dominating. I wish that Mr. Jericho would take to doing things like that, but unfortunately he's shy about showing ownership of me in public.

I sigh.

“Don't look so sad, kid,” the mayor says. “We don't need a piece of shit mungo to look after us, and neither do you. You'll see. Besides, if he was a _real_ dad, he wouldn't have left you here.”

“He won't leave me,” I say.

McCready snorts. “He just did, dumbass. That son-of-a-bitch just-”

I shoot him. Three times, and the buckshot sinks into his chest, stomach, and thigh. He falls, his face going white, and slips off the edge of the rampart.

“Mayor!” a little girl shrieks, and the other children flee as she runs to his side. The girl glares at me, her hands reaching for her pistol, and she doesn't get any farther. Her brains splatter out onto the cavern wall behind her.

I'm humming as I skip up to the mayor's lookout, and I pull the lever, pleased when the gate reopens. I am far more pleased when Mr. Jericho comes striding in, his shotgun ready and his eyes wary.

“Darling!” I coo, and leap down at him. “I missed you!”

“Five minutes,” he growls in disbelief. “I was gone for five fucking minutes.”

He lets me kiss him anyway.

Then Mr. Jericho breaks off the kiss, frowning. “You shot the kids?”

I pout. “The boy insulted you.”

He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “And the girl?”

“She reached for her gun.”

“No fuckin' kidding,” Jericho grumbles. “Well, whatever. We're in. Now let's find this Murder Pass bitch and get out of here before those snot-nosed brats call the cavalry.”

“Cavalry?”

“Wolves,” he says grimly, and we start off into the cave. “Been breeding 'em here for decades. Inbred, vicious things. They set them on me a long time ago. Back when I was raiding and slaving. Couple of us decided to check out Little Lamplight—happens every few years, I guess, that some guys get drunk and want to show those kids the hard truth of the real world.”

We get through the first tunnel without a hitch, and after a few moments we find a spray-painted sign: _MURDER PASS._

“We came through, laughed at the dumb kids hiding behind their little wooden walls, and started firing—knew it was just a matter of time before we'd be able to kick our way in.” Jericho looks around, cursing. We can both hear the wolves howling and baying. He grabs my arm, and we run.

“Only,” he grunts, almost dragging me, “we never got that far. Wolf jumped from the top of that wall and tore my buddy's throat out. We decided to quit foolin' around, booked it out of there. No use in firing at a wall when you've got a full on wolf-pack chasin' ya.”

I think that there's a certain irony, that Jericho would say that as we sprint through the caverns—we're in view of the exit, and there's another child there that screams and covers her ears when I squeeze off a round at her.

“No time to raise the gate,” Jericho grunts, and we jump from the ramparts, the wolves right at our heels. Jericho lands hard in the dirt, while I roll away and spring to my feet. A wolf is already looking down at us, as if contemplating our demise, and I fire at it twice. The animal retreats with a yelp and a whine, and then there's a tense ceasefire—the wolves still howling and growling, Jericho still getting to his feet.

“Anyway,” Jericho finishes, “that's how I got that scar on my calf.”

And we step into Murder Pass.

 

“Shit!” Jericho hisses, and reloads.

Those damn kids were right. This place _is_ a shithole. The pass is crawling with Super Mutants, so many that I half-expect to find them stepping out of the walls.

“I'm glad I packed the extra ammunition!” I shout to Jericho as he fires on the advancing muties.

“Yeah!” he answers, and I dodge the swing of a nailed board. A few light steps forward, and I'm past the mutant, brushing up against his side. He's turning now, and then screams as his intestines swell with blood.

He's been cut open, from front to back, two inches deep.

I am not sure whether I should be proud of my own swiftness and dexterity or the sharpness of my knife, but it is hardly time to contemplate it—another mutant is firing at me, the barrel of his enormous gun smoking. I roll forward, diving past him, and take cover in a shallow divot of the cavern wall. Slotting myself up against the stone, I peek out and empty my rifle into the Super Mutant. He falls, an instant after the one that Jericho is finishing off.

“Good girl,” he says approvingly, and I shine under his praise. “Looks like we're almost there.”

He points, and way down the cave's tunnel, I can see the outline of a man-made structure, a pale white light. I recognize it instantly, and the similarities to 101 make me shiver. I don't like it. It makes sense that Vault Tec would make all of the vaults look precisely the same, but... it'd be akin to seeing my father in Moriarty's Saloon. Something off. Something wrong.

“Vault 87!” I cheer, injecting false positivity into my voice. I give the thoughts of home a shove, and they retreat back so far that the blast doors and hard metal no longer look familiar.

“Treasure,” Jericho agrees. “These Vaults were built to house a lot of people, but they weren't supposed to be big. Should be easy enough to dart in there and out, with that supposed treasure, without getting tripped up by too many of those green bastards.”

“You mean by more than we already have?” I ask, putting a hand on my hip. “Because if that's your idea of an easy breeze, then we're in for one hell of a war.”

He snorts. “Quit your fussin', woman. You were the one who insisted we come.”

“We can head back home now,” I tease, “if you're too scared to keep going.”

“Isn't that a little disrespectful? Talking to your master like this?”

“Well,” I say with a seductive smile, “I do whatever makes my owner happy. I become whomever he wants me to be. I say the things that he wants to hear.”

I reach his side, run a hand up his chest, and murmur, “And I think _this_ master likes a little bit of disrespect now and then.”

He growls, deep in his chest, and I can feel the vibrations against my body. I drape my arms around his neck and lean in against him. His hands rest on my hips, and our teeth clash together as our mouths meet in a sloppy, passionate kiss. His tongue pulls against mine. His hands descend to touch my ass, and then his hands tighten, delivering delicious pressure, pressing me closer to him. We break apart, gasping.

“You're crazy,” he growls. “Batshit crazy.”

I lick my lips, staring into his eyes.

“You really wanna do this here? Right now?” His tone is filled with disbelief.

I kiss him again, and he hefts me up into his arms. My legs wrap around his waist, and he presses me against the wall, the slope of it just enough to carry most of my weight. His hands fumble with his belt, and I watch him, smiling.

“Dammit,” he says, when he realizes that I haven't started on my own pants yet. “Hurry up, what are you doing?”

I giggle, and lean up to his ear: “You do it.”

He grumbles, but unbuttons my pants for me, and I sigh at his touch. Shiver from the freezing cold rock on my ass as he pulls my pants down to my knees. I open my legs wider, settle into a more comfortable position, and Jericho slides into me.

I let my head fall back and I let out a long sigh. He's being gentle this time, starting very slowly, and it's almost relaxing, feeling the chafe of skin against skin, the fullness of his dick, the wet heat of his sweaty groin. My eyes drift to the side, and I'm suddenly turned on when I see the carnage that we've left behind—brains and guts and bloody leather.

Jericho swears at my sudden slickness, and moves faster. I am panting and groaning now, my legs locked around him.

“Say my name,” he grunts, and I whisper it to him, looking into his eyes. He is staring back at me, and I am electrified. He is looking at me— _me—_ and no one else. I am the only thing that he cares about in this moment, his mission forgotten, the killing pushed aside. There is only me, and the dull throb of his dick sliding in and out.

“Again,” he breathes.

“Jericho.”

He nods, sweat beading on his brow, and I smile and begin to shower his face in kisses. “Jericho, Jericho, Jericho-” The last ends in a gasp as he jerks upward, harder than before, and hits a particularly good spot. It's enough to make him snarl in desire, and his hands press into my hips, and he fucks me mercilessly, without a care for my own comfort. The overload of pain and desire and adrenaline-

I moan, high-pitched and aching, and cry out his name in a sob as my body spasms and jerks. A fine shudder runs down my back, squeezing against his erection impossibly hard, and he swears and comes along with me.

And then we are left there panting and gasping, far sweatier than when we'd been fighting the muties just moments ago.

Jericho doesn't say anything, only gives me a crooked grin and a nod, and steps away. I slide off the edge of the divot without his hips to support me, and we both giggle as my knees collapse—he's caught me with one arm, and is helping my regain my balance.

“Ready?” I ask, and he nods, redoing his belt buckle. I give him the extra moment, and use the time to stretch. Side to side, and then my arms, lifted up as if trying to touch the ceiling. Nothing but gray darkness above. Flat and dead.

I imagine the rocks and dirt above us being pulled away, and seeing sunset high above our heads—colors spilling in violent shades of heat, and fading out into starlight.

 


	6. Perfectly Perfect

As much fun as we might have been having earlier, Mr. Jericho and I step into Vault 87 with renewed caution. _This_ part, we know, is bound to be the most dangerous. This is the point of no return.

The thought briefly crosses my mind that there might not be a treasure at all. The whole story could have been made up simply because the thought of an impenetrable labyrinth filled with vicious monsters begs for a tale of a prize, waiting for the strongest of all adventurers to claim. And Jericho and I would have gone all this way for nothing.

 _All this way for nothing._ I mull over that for a moment, and then shake it from my mind. It isn't a waste, even if there's nothing here—we'll have killed Super Mutants, and have gone into a place that no human has seen in possibly over one hundred years. An adventure with my beloved. That should be enough for me; anything else is just greedy.

I could be starving and beaten, days away from death, and I'd still be content, as long as I have Mr. Jericho by my side.

“Jackpot,” Jericho mutters as we reach a room filled with supplies. He steps over to the medkit on one of the shelves and starts digging through it; I grimace when I spot a tripwire just a few feet away. I disarm it without a word, and collect a trio of grenades while he whistles tunelessly.

“I got you a present,” I sing. He glances over the grenades approvingly. “Where should I put them?”

“Leave one on your belt, gimme the rest,” he grunts. “Use it if we either get slammed with muties, or if ya see one of those centaur fuckers coming. I hate those guys. Freak me out.”

I shrug. I've only seen them two times, while exploring the wastes with Jericho. They're tough, sure, and scary, but no worse than anything else that can kill you out here. I sort of like fighting them, actually. They're interesting.

But if Mr. Jericho wants me to kill them before they reach him, then it'll be done. I feel lighter, dizzy with the revelation that my owner trusts me enough to confide his fears.

I'll protect him.

And if I must, I'll be _ecstatic_ to die for him.

I reach out for him, but Jericho swats my hands away with irritation. “Get the hell offa me! Dumb bitch! Can't you stay inside your clothes for more than fifteen minutes at a time? God _damn.”_

I pout and cross my arms. Great. Now Mr. Jericho's mad at me again. I wish I didn't upset him, but I can't help but want to touch him, my urges overcoming my training, starved for his affections. It is impossible to get enough of him.

“Go scout ahead or something,” he grumbles, dumping a box of ammo into his bag. “Just don't get killed.”

“Yes, boss,” I say with a wink. “Be back soon.”

I take a few cautious steps into the Vault, immediately noting the fresh blood splattered all over the walls and floor. My footsteps are light, and I am far more stealthy than Jericho; I spot a Super Mutant through an open doorway before he catches sight of me, and I empty my rifle into his head.

As is often the horrifying case with muties, it doesn't kill him, even though his face is bloody and disfigured. He only lets out a roar and stomps forward, readying his minigun, and I dart back and reload. If he catches me with the spray from that thing, I'll be dead in less than a second.

I bite my lip as I dive back into the storage room with Mr. Jericho. He's swearing, reaching for his rifle. I'm glad that he's prepared, but I feel responsible for this situation. I shouldn't have led the mutant back to my master; I should have stood my ground and finished him off right away, with my knife... or died trying. I _knew_ that Mr. Jericho wasn't expecting muties so soon.

It seems like I can only ever move two steps forward, and two steps back—always helping Mr. Jericho but causing just as much trouble in return.

 _Bang._ Jericho's eyes are squinted along the sight, and then he relaxes, the Super Mutant slumped in a bloody heap a few yards away.

“Thank you, darling,” I say quietly, my eyes downcast.

“Eh? What're you pouting for? You wanted to kill that fucker yourself or something?” He snorts. “Get over it. You can't get all of them yourself.”

That's not why I was upset, but I don't correct him. If I told him that it was because I was worried that he would get shot, he'd be pissed off. The last thing Jericho wants to hear is a woman saying that she doesn't think he can handle a fight.

“I'm done here,” he says. “Found a bottle o' whiskey. We'll share it once we get outta here, okay?”

We go ahead, myself in the lead, ducked down, and Jericho strolling behind me idly, waiting for me to give him the all-clear.

The Vault smells like death. There's the sharp tang of chemicals, too, scents that I recognize from my daddy's office. _Could... could the Super Mutants actually be performing some kind of surgery here?_ It's a horrifying thought, but the evidence for this stacks up as we pass by grimy windows splattered with blood and gore, corpses laying on operating tables. The Geiger counter on my Pip-boy starts bleeping at me if I so much as poke my head through the door.

What were they _doing_ in here?

“Christ,” Jericho mutters, flinching when he sees the remains of a mutant, a warped monster with bulging eyes staring blindly into the ceiling. Its gray skin is bubbled, puss-filled welts covering its neck and arms.

“Fresh,” I tell him, after looking at the body for awhile. I can see from the doorway that the puss inside the thin layer of skin is a hardened yellow, but not so old that all the moisture has been pulled out of the infections. “No decay. It died less than three days ago.”

My owner looks unnerved, and as we continue on, I notice him sweating.

It is interesting. I am not afraid, because I have my owner with me, but he is very obviously frightened by this place.

But these mysteries hold no power over me. They are dead mutants. I don't like the thought of the nasty experiments that are possibly being run here, but it is a disinterested thought.

Jericho's being much more quiet, listening for the sounds of enemies, and so the harsh boom of a Super Mutant's voice is enough to make him jump.

_“It can't be!”_

Our attention jerks towards the sound... and I hide behind Jericho when I see one of the Super Mutants staring out at us through the window. He is tall, larger than some of the lesser Super Mutants, and lankier, accentuating his height.

“Either you are quite real, or I am going... quite mad,” the Super Mutant voice growls. There's uneven spacing between the words as he struggles to speak. “Could you actually be... pure humans?”

Jericho glances at me, then shuffles a little closer to the window. “You've gotta be shitting me,” he mutters. “That thing isn't _talking_ to us, is it?”

I'm as surprised as he is. I've never heard them string together a sentence longer than three words; _time to die_ and _it's a woman_ and _gonna kill you!_

“You... over there. Please, come speak to me. I'm in the room to your left. Use the intercom next to the window.”

Jericho stares at the mutant, who is looking back at us with an awful expression. His lips are pulled back into a sneer, exactly the same as the other muties we've seen, but his eyes look almost... pleading. It's wrong. Something about this is horribly wrong.

Jericho stops by the intercom, and I stay right on his heels, using his bulk as a shield. I glance out from behind him, craning my neck to see the mutant's face, and I dart back when his eyes move down to me. I bury my face into the back of Jericho's shirt.

“He scares me,” I whine, but my owner doesn't say anything.

Instead, he leans forward, presses the button, and clears his throat. “What the fuck are you?”

A pause, and I see the mutant gritting his teeth. “Must... you use such vulgarities? I am what you might consider a Super Mutant, but I... prefer the term _Meta Human!_ Suits me better, don't you think? But perhaps I am getting ahead of myself. The name's Fawkes.”

Jericho snorts and turns to look at me with a grin, muttering, “If he's a fox, I'd hate to see what they call a vixen.”

I don't laugh at his joke. My hand curls around his shirt sleeve.

Fawkes is still looking at us, clearly waiting for a response, so Jericho humors him with a reply.

“Jericho,” he says. “The lady's name is Carousel. Quit lookin' at my bitch, she's shy. Not used to seeing motherfuckers as ugly as you.”

“Your arrogance against my kind is hardly surprising. However, there's only so much even I can take. Please, I'm appealing to the positive side of your human nature,” he pleads. “Can we have a civil conversation?”

“I ain't got shit to say to you,” Jericho spits. “I'm leaving now. You're weirding me out.”

“No, please. I haven't had a true conversation all my life! Don't go!” Fawkes bellows, and one massive fist bangs against the glass. Both of us jump back, startled. “I could help you!”

There's a long silence, and Jericho stares at him, measuring the distance between us and the heavily-breathing Super Mutant. Finally, he edges forward, and asks, “Help us...?”

“The G.E.C.K.. You are here for it, are you not?”

Jericho glance at me again, and I nod impatiently. The treasure! That must be what he's talking about!

“Uh... sure,” he says. “The G.E.C.K.. Listen, how about you tell me where it is, and I don't paint the walls with your brains?”

“What is it with your kind? This is why the bombs fell, you know.” There's a pause as we stare at him—really? That's what he hits us with? As if we were the ones who launched the nukes. “I have no reason to tell you anything. You kill me, you get nothing. So what's the point? Let me out of this place and I'll retrieve the G.E.C.K. for you.”

Jericho aims at the glass, and fires twice. There's an awful noise, a blackened smear on the glass. Fawkes' face is hidden from view, temporarily, and then he crouches to glare at us.

“That was entirely unnecessary,” he growls.

“Huh,” Jericho says. “Bulletproof. Too bad.”

“This containment cell was made to withstand the rages of a Super Mutant,” Fawkes answers angrily. “Your guns will do nothing.”

“Well, if you won't help us and I can't kill you, then I think this little chat is over,” Jericho sneers. “I hope you rot in there.”

“Wait!” Fawkes roars, and hits the glass again. “Please come back! Please!”

We're already walking away.

“You, child, Cara-Carousel?” he pleads, his words stumbling and heavy with exertion. “Won't you show pity? I... I have never met a woman, but the fairer sex is the kinder of the two, is it not? Please, just listen to me.”

Jericho laughs out loud at this and shakes his head. “Goddamn, this guy is a real bucket of laughs.”

He strides back to the intercom, still chuckling, and says, “Cara? You have no fucking idea what you're getting into, speaking about her. She's the hardest fucking woman I know. Cold as a block of ice. You know she killed three kids on her way in here?”

He waits, grinning, looking for Fawkes' reaction, but it seems he's been stunned into silence.

“You'd be better off begging for help from a radroach,” he jeers. “Cara's my bitch, and she doesn't listen to anyone but me. If I tell her to jump, she jumps. I tell her to suck my cock, she does it. Hell, I could tell her to shoot herself in the leg and she'd do it, without flinching.”

“You...” Fawkes' voice sounds _truly_ angry. “You both are monsters!”

“Nah,” he shoots back, “I'm a goddamn legend. Jericho, filled with sin and lust. There's an ancient city of the same name. But you're so fuckin' smart, I bet you've heard of it, right?”

He walks away, laughing, and I'm finally feeling brave enough to add a parting jibe of my own.

“Don't talk shit about Mr. Jericho,” I whisper into the intercom, “or I'll break into your cell just to kill you myself.”

The hallway is filled with the sounds of his howls. We turn our backs upon the Meta Human in his cell, and listen to the screams that echo around us, tortured, insane, like something from the depths of hell.

 


	7. I Wonder

There are a few more Super Mutants to kill, but none that give us too much trouble. We explore the entire Vault, and pass by Fawkes a few times, who is sitting broken and sobbing in his cage. We both ignore him.

“Dammit,” Jericho growls, “could that bastard have been lying to us? What the hell does a 'G.E.C.K.' look like, anyways?”

I glance into the window, watching the monster weep. “He doesn't look like a liar,” I say. “Do you think that we should free him, and then kill him once we have it?”

Jericho shakes his head. “Too dangerous. You see that sledge he's got in there? The instant that door opens, he's gonna split my head like a watermelon.”

“And take the G.E.C.K. for himself,” I finish glumly. “Right. Got it.”

We stand in silence, thinking, and then Jericho shrugs. “Can't hurt to ask.”

He raps on the glass, and Fawkes starts and looks up. I flinch back. His face is a reddened, puffy mess of snot and tears. He is foul and disgusting, and I want to vomit. But there is no denying that the emotions in his eyes are human; he runs through a thread of surprise, sorrow, and anger.

“Back so soon? What is it now? Come to gawk at the caged animal?” he spits. His voice is halting.

“Yeah, and what a display,” Jericho retorts. “Jesus fucking Christ, grow some balls. You should be _glad_ to be in there, or else you'd find yourself blown to little bitty pieces.”

Fawkes glares. “It is just my luck that the first human I am able to meet is the worst of your species. If this is what's to be expected from interacting with humans, though, then I'm likely better off in _here_ than out there amongst _you.”_

“Oh, all high and mighty now, are we? As if you wouldn't smash us to death if you were able.” Jericho pauses, and then presses the button again. “Listen, you freak, tell us where the G.E.C.K. is, and I'll _think_ about letting you out.”

“No,” the Super Mutant growls.

“Alright, you want a better prize, huh? Something concrete? What d'you want? A bottle of whiskey? A skeevy magazine?” The corner of Jericho's mouth twitches up. “Maybe if you give me good enough information, I'll have Cara take off her panties and spread her legs against the glass.”

“Enough!” Fawkes bellows, standing up. “Enough of your disgusting comments. A man such as you does not deserve to even touch the GECK, let alone claim ownership! I will not tell you where it is! But despite your behavior, I will retrieve it for you, as long as you let me out.”

Jericho shrugs. “He's a lost cause. Hey, you wanna try, Cara? Rile 'em up. It's pretty fun.”

I shake my head, biting my lip. “He's... scary. I don't wanna.”

“Scary?” He laughs. “Baby doll, you kill more muties than the Brotherhood does in a year, and you're scared of one in a cage? Come on. Say somethin' to him.”

He's asked me to, and I can't refuse him. Unwillingly, throwing a sullen look at my master, I ask the only questions I have: “What did you do to be locked up? Were you bad?”

Jericho snorts with laughter.

The monster's eyes fix upon me, and his sneer stays in place. Even through the dirty glass, I can see his nostrils expanding and contracting as he takes deep breaths, forcibly calming himself.

“No,” he says. “Nothing such as that. Only for being different from the rest.”

“Being different's not so awful,” I tell him, since Jericho hasn't asked me to stop talking. “At least you didn't do anything wrong. I'm always bad. I used to get locked up a lot. Mr. Jericho is nicer though. He isn't mean to me when I'm bad.”

“Then,” Fawkes says, “you understand what it is like to be friendless and alone. How is it that you can stand to watch me suffer so? Are you truly devoid of empathy?”

“I'm bored,” Jericho says, as I press the button again, ready to speak. “Let's go look around some more.”

I hesitate, my finger still on the button, and then I nod. The truth is, I wasn't sure what to say to Fawkes, and I'm grateful that Jericho interrupted me. I don't know what he means. I guess I never really thought about it, and I don't particularly care about it, either, but it rankles me that this ugly bastard thinks that I _should_ care.

Fawkes stops us with a shout, and then lets out a long sigh that hisses through the loudspeakers. “I will give you fair warning,” he says, glumly. “The chamber in which the G.E.C.K. resides is absolutely flooded with radiation. It's unlikely you'd survive very long. However, I can. I will ask it of you one more time: let me out of here, and I will place the G.E.C.K. safely in your hands.”

“Radiation,” Jericho scoffs, even though Fawkes can no longer hear him, although I'm sure he's trying to read my master's lips. “I've lived beside an atom bomb for the past twenty-five years. I'm pretty sure I can handle some fuckin' _rads.”_

The mutant shouts at us, “When you give up because you can't get the G.E.C.K. and you realize your mistake, you'll be back!”

“Fuck off,” he mutters. “Jesus. That green piece of shit nags worse than a housewife.”

He glances at me, as if I'd be offended. I only smile. _Housewife._ I don't imagine that he would seriously compare me to someone of that stature, but I am charmed regardless. Undeserving of his attention, a worthless slave, but he still cares for me.

It is then that I realize he's looking at me not because of what he'd said, but because my hand is gripping the hilt of my knife so hard that my knuckles are white.

“Okay there, baby doll?”

“I don't like him,” I answer calmly. “He insulted you.”

“Mm, you're so overprotective,” he says, ruffling my hair. “And what d'you think you could do against a monster like that, huh? He's even bigger than most of the Super Mutants we've seen. More alert, too.”

A pause.

“He is weak,” I say with absolute certainty.

Jericho looks at me, surprised, but accepts my word for it. He's begun to trust my instincts on a few small things, having learned that I notice things that most others do not. Details about people, a keen understanding of motivation.

I am proud that he trusts my opinion.

Jericho and I make another loop through the building, and he scowls when he realizes that the G.E.C.K. must be in the single room we'd passed by before—the room plastered in all kinds of radioactivity warnings, the one that needs to be opened and closed via a terminal, the one that makes the Geiger counter on my Pip Boy go crazy just by getting too close.

_Dammit._

“This must be it,” Jericho says, looking around. He taps at the terminal, and the blast doors open. “Well? What do you think this thing is, anyway?”

“A weapon,” I say immediately.

“Huh,” Jericho says, rubbing his chin. “Yeah, a weapon... or maybe a robot or something, yeah? A really smart one that can do surgeries and remove radiation and everything. There are some machines that do that, you know.”

He looks at me, shrugs, and takes a deep breath. “Alright, that bastard said that the rads in here are pretty high, so I'll be quick—I'm just gonna grab it and run out. Okay? Wait here.”

“Hold on,” I say, stopping him, my eyes fixed on the Geiger counter. I step inside the hall, and the counter shrieks at me. I step back, hurriedly.

“34 rads per second,” I say. “And that's just at the entrance. That gives you less than thirty seconds to get in there and back out alive. Are... are you sure you don't want to give up?”

Jericho crosses his arms. “Eh... yeah, you're probably right. We don't even know what this thing does. Tell you what. I'll go to the end of the hall, there, just a dozen feet through, and I'll get a glimpse of it. If it's something really interesting, we can come back later with radiation suits and Rad-X.”

I nod, reluctantly, and Jericho steps through. True to his word, he sprints down to the end of the hall, takes a quick glance, and then runs back, looking pissed off.

“What?” I ask, as he uses the terminal to shut the doors. “What was it?”

“I don't know,” he growls. “It was covered by some sorta metal pillar. Chances are, that thing, weapon or whatever, it's even more radioactive than the sludge oozing out of the walls.”

I deflate, sadly. “Oh... that's too bad. So I guess there's no chance of us ever getting it? Even if we _had_ freed the Super Mutant, and he didn't kill us, we wouldn't be able to do anything with the G.E.C.K. after all.”

“Mm,” he agrees. “Well—it wasn't all bad, right? We got to kill a bunch o' muties, got to gawk at that dipshit in the cell... and on our way back through, we can loot all the bodies for caps. What do you say?”

I smile, and touch my lover's arm. “That sounds wonderful.”

“Jesus,” Jericho says. “I gotta sit down first, though. All of a sudden I got this awful headache.”

I frown as Mr. Jericho leans against the wall, and lowers himself to the ground. “Are you okay?”

I am uneasy. I don't like this.

“Yes. Dammit. Radiation sickness, probably. Got it once when I was a kid. I'm fine. I was barely in there at all. I'll just sit here for awhile, and then we can keep going. The nausea isn't permanent-” Jericho stops, very suddenly, and then chokes. I blanch, watching him gagging, and one hand presses against his throat as he fights a losing battle with his stomach. He finally opens his mouth, spewing vomit across the floor.

“Fuck,” he growls, wiping his mouth. “Well, there went breakfast. _Shit._ I feel awful.”

“Mr. Jericho,” I say, kneeling in front of him, “are you sure you're okay? We don't have any medicine, but we do have purified water, and a little bit of floater meat...”

“Cara,” he retorts, “I just puked my guts out, you think I wanna eat that greasy shit? I don't think it does anything for the rads anyway. I'll take the water, though.”

Jericho swishes his mouth out first, and then spits. He drains the rest of the bottle and sighs. “Shit. I'm really—urp—really not feelin' it. Hey, help me up. Let's get outta here. I need some fresh air. _Fuck.”_

My hands are shaking. Jericho is really acting like he's in pain, and I'm not sure what to do. We have stimpaks, but those won't do anything for radiation.

I pull him away from the puddle of vomit, and my master's feet stumble as I help him move towards the doorway; he stops me, shaking his head, and water and bile gushes out of his mouth with an awful, deep belch, and sloshes all down his front. He groans and drops to his knees.

“Mr. Jericho!”

“Sorry, kid,” he mutters. “This old wastlander might not be able to walk outta here. Think I'm gonna pass out.”

“Please,” I say, and I find myself crying. “Please stay with me, baby, please. Look at me.”

“I'm lookin'. You're as pretty as ever, baby doll.” His hazel eyes fixate on mine, and he sways. I reach out, steadying him, and he puts his arms around me. “You're a good kid, okay? If for some reason I don't make it outta here, you remember that, okay? You're not bad. And Mr. Eulogy never should'a been mean to you.”

“No,” I say, crying harder, and I shake my head. “Stop... stop talking like this. You're gonna be okay, alright? You'll be okay.”

“Shut the fuck up,” he says, but there's a glimmer of amusement in his voice. “Let an old man speak. I don't feel well, shit's going downhill from here. Even if I ain't dying, you should at least let me say what I want when I'm sick.”

I nod, biting my lip. Hot tears slide down my face, and my bangs stick to my skin, sticky with sweat and fear.

My lover continues, “An' I want you to know that I would'a married you. Real proper, with that dumb fucking Church of Atom preacher watching us read our vows. And then I could fix up our house, maybe try some renovations, maybe a skylight or something. God, I'd love to see your smiling face against the stars as I fuck you senseless...”

I let out a choked sob, and I put my hands on his cheeks. “You will, baby, you will. I promise. We'll go home, and we can do that whenever you want. Every night. Anything you want, darling.”

“So... that means you'd have said yes?” he asks, his eyes half-closed, smiling at me. “You wouldn't mind being married to a scarred-up, no-good piece of shit like me? You'd want to marry me anyways?”

“Yes,” I cry, rubbing my thumb over his face. Dammit, he's too warm—his temperature has sky-rocketed. “Yes. I'll marry you. Today, tomorrow—doesn't matter. I love you. So stay here.”

“Good,” he says, his eyes fluttering closed. Then, he adds, almost as an afterthought, “And yeah, I'll stick around. Can't leave a pretty little thing like you alone, right?”

I ask, sobbing, “Promise?”

“Promise.” Jericho sounds so confident, even with his eyes closed, even with his hands slack and twitching. I take in a gasp of air, crying harder, but he doesn't say anything else.

“Baby?” I whisper, my throat suddenly dry as dust. “Hey, darling?”

He says nothing, but a froth of foam spills out of the corner of his mouth, and I hold onto him tightly as he convulses, pressing his face against my chest. His eyes move beneath the lids erratically, and he convulses a second time, so hard that he knocks me over. I am too frightened to cry out, so I grab what I can of him and squeeze.

Some part of me, very distantly, thinks about what Daddy had said about seizures. About keeping them from hurting themselves. I wrap my arms around his head as soon as I think about his lectures, and after a long time, the shaking slows. And his breathing becomes calm again.

I sigh, exhausted and relieved. We are laying side by side, facing each other, nestled in each others' arms. And it is as if we are still at home, in bed together, and I am watching my lover sleep. He is breathing deeply and quietly. Safe. Relaxed. As if he's really just asleep and not unconscious, as if he would wake up if I called his name.

But this restfulness is good, right? Healthy. It can help his body process the rads, maybe. Besides, he said that he wouldn't die. He promised.

So that means he's gonna be okay.

I sit up, horrified, as Jericho's breathing begins to turn labored and gurgling; blood is dripping from his nose. _I have to stop the bleeding—can't he suffocate from the blood if it goes down his throat?_

I am about to tear up the bottom half of my shirt when Jericho convulses one more time, and then goes still and silent.

No.

_No._

“Mr. Jericho!” I scream, and I flip him onto his back and straddle him, pressing my fingers up against his neck for a pulse. Nothing. I drop my head to his chest, hoping that I'm wrong, begging and praying to all the known gods that this is a mistake. Because Jericho's heart has to keep on beating. His heart and mine are the same. If his stops, then surely mine will fall still and silent too.

“Mr. Jericho!” I cry again, my voice rising to a shriek. I pound on his chest, desperately trying to restart his heart, and then fumble with our bags, pulling out a stimpak. The adrenaline in the syringe will make his heart start up again, won't it? And keep him alive until I can drag him back to Doc Church?

I push the needle into his chest, as far in as I dare, and then depress the syringe, filling his chest with the healing solution. Then I toss the spent hypo aside and wait. My hands stroke his worn, tired face, wiping the blood and vomit away. I sing to him a little, a few of the songs that I heard on the radio before Galaxy News Radio's signal vanished. And then I switch to songs from my childhood, as I move my beloved away from the mess of blood and puke on the floor, and use a few pieces of folded-up clothes as a pillow to cushion his head.

And yet he does not wake up. He does not breathe, or laugh, or curse at me with that gleam in his eyes. His hands do not reach up for mine, and his eyes do not open.

_But he promised._

“You said you wouldn't leave me alone,” I whisper, my voice ragged from tears. My body aches from trembling, and my nose keeps dripping even though I have been crying for a very long time. I can hardly believe that I have any more water left in my body to cry.

And yet I do.

I feel as though I have been through the longest battle of my life.

I sit with Jericho until his body goes cold and stiff. I am not hungry, although I am extremely thirsty, but I don't drink anything. I stay still and silent, trying to trap this moment. Trying by force of will to force it back, to push time into submission and bring Jericho back to the instant that he opened those goddamn blast doors.

And it is at that moment, after failing to revive him for the thousandth time, that I am without a master.

 

My blood freezes in my veins, and I begin to shake again. _Without a master. Without a master._ My skin sears with heat, and I break out into a cold sweat.

 _I need to find someone. Anyone._ I've... I've never been without a master before, being _un-owned,_ it's an unfamiliar concept, something _wrong,_ as criminal and foul as cannibalism or rape. I _need_ to be owned. Without ownership, I am adrift, without direction, a tiny speck of nothingness with enemies upon all sides.

It is terror that brings me to action. Without a second thought, I pull open Jericho's shirt and undo the chain around his neck. The bronze pendant of the prancing horse gleams in the light.

_My leash._

I move thoughtlessly, leaving all of my weapons and things behind. The only thing that matters anymore is the tiny, merry horse in my hand. My eyes are fixed upon it as I walk, and then I sprint, clutching it in my fist.

And skid to a halt in front of the Super Mutant's cell.

Could... could _he...?_ But I have no choice. My eyes are still leaking, my nose running like a faucet, and somehow I know that the moment I have a new master, all my pain will go away. I will be a new woman, entirely devoted to her beloved master, eager to fight and die for him.

I slam my palm against the window as I reach the intercom, and Fawkes looks up from where he is sitting on his bed. He does not say anything. He looks angry and confused.

“Fawkes—please, please—I need—need you... help...” I am sobbing again, hitting the bulletproof window as if I can break it down with fists alone.

“If you are wanting to convince me to aid your friend,” he rumbles, “then you will have to look elsewhere. I no longer want anything to do with you. _Either_ of you.”

“Fawkes—listen—let you out!” My words blur together, a mad rush of sound and emotion. I am barely as intelligible as a Super Mutant myself.

“There's a fire alarm system,” he begins, but I shake my head and start pulling bobby pins out of my pockets. My slender filet knife follows. I have never seen such a complicated lock before, and I can immediately tell that the internal mechanisms are heavy. Breaking Fawkes out may be impossible...

 _No._ I shove that thought away, because it _cannot_ be impossible. If I don't get him out _now,_ I think I'll go crazy.

The Super Mutant falls silent, leaning against the window, trying to watch me pick the lock. My hands shake so badly that I snap sixteen bobby pins in a row without making any headway. I take a few gulps of air, wipe the sweat off my face, and start over.

I do not know how long I work, only that I know I lose track of time. I retreat beyond conscious thought, my movements practiced and automatic, and at long last, when I have only four bobby pins left out of a starting amount of nearly one hundred, I hear a click. I stand, my knees aching from having been crouched for so long, and open the door.

“Finally... freedom! True freedom!” the Super Mutant bellows, launching himself out of the room. I flinch, frightened by the sudden roars. Fawkes towers over me, much larger than I had expected now that he is so close. “I cannot thank you enough for this gift. You have no idea how long I've pictured this moment in my mind... and it feels far better than I'd imagined.”

He looks down at me, as if remembering what had brought me to him, and says, “I suppose you now expect me to help your crude friend- what?”

Desperation gripping me, I take his hand, and drop the pendant into his palm. His neck is too thick for him to be able to wear it just yet, but-

A shudder runs down my spine, and I can just about _feel_ my brain rerouting when Fawkes holds the pendant up to the light, squinting at the tiny horse. It looks like it's the size of a gnat compared to him—my breath catches— _master._

I am still very, very sad about Jericho. I know that I am. But it's compartmentalized, my feelings for anybody who is not my master in a separate place. My owner takes priority over all other things. And my owner is alive and healthy and I have just rescued him.

I am a good girl.

“What is this?” he asks, confused, and I smile.

“The other end of the leash,” I say coyly.

“But—wait, what of Jericho? Why isn't he with you? Didn't you come running back to rescue me because you need help for him?” His brow is furrowed in confusion, his permanent sneer stretched even farther across his face.

“Mr. Jericho is dead,” I tell him. “The radiation was too strong.”

“I... I am sorry to hear this. I did not wish that the first humans that I met to be ended by such a fate.” He pauses, and then stares down at me, resolute, steeling himself. “I _did_ tell you both that it would most likely prove fatal.”

Closest to an _I-told-you-so_ that I'll hear from him, probably. But that's alright. I'm used to Jericho's bluntness, but this gentler phrasing is something that I could get used to... _will_ get used to. After all... he is my owner, and I am nothing but clay in his hands. I will be all that he wants me to be. I will protect him.

I refuse to lose any more owners.

I decide that in a single moment, watching this strange, powerful man. I decide to do all that I can to keep myself from losing him. Even if I must break a few rules to do it.

Mr. Eulogy would be furious if he knew that after all my training, that I would resolve to defy his rules, but I lost him and Jericho both. I will not be cast aside so easily this time.

“Mr. Fawkes,” I say, lowering my eyes, “thank you for your concern. I'll go get my things, with your permission, and then we can go.”

“Go? I don't understand.”

“You're leaving Vault 87, right?” I ask, reaching for his hand. He does not stop me, and I feel a blush cover my cheeks. My owner's hands are massive, each one close to the length of my forearm. I squeeze his hand, both seductive and threatening. “You wouldn't dream of leaving your own girl behind, would you?”

His face hardens. “What are you talking about?”

“Mr. Jericho is dead,” I repeat, “and you have my leash. You own me now. I am yours to command. I will serve you, fight for you, die for you. Anything.”

Fawkes pushes me away, angrily, and I land hard on my ass.

“Hey!” I yelp, and scowl at him. “That's not very nice. What's your problem, love? Did I do something wrong-”

“ENOUGH!” he roars, glaring at me. “That is what this is about?”

His rage is almost as great as he is. I cower before him, trembling, unbelievably aroused by his fury, my eyes wide and hungry as I watch his muscles flexing, veins pounding. He is so terrifying—so dangerous, so erotic-

“You did not come to _free_ me!” he bellows. “You only let me out in order to... to foist this _thing_ upon me! I want no part of your selfishness!”

Without even a grunt of exertion, thoughtlessly, he twists the legs of the bronze horse into a spiral, pulling until the metal breaks in two. The pieces fall on either side of him. He is breathing heavily, his breath coming in sharp snorts, waiting for my reaction.

I... I am not sure what to do at first. I stare at him, agape. My heart is stopped, as still as Jericho's. My eyes begin to leak again, this time because I have gone on for so long without blinking. I gasp, feeling as if all the air has been beaten out of me.

_My leash has been severed._

I scream, a wild howl of madness and horror, and rush forward with a snarl. My hair falls in front of my eyes, and I see the world past jagged edges—punching, biting, snarling, my surroundings a blur. I am hyperventilating, and eventually my body reaches the point of exhaustion. My pulse pounds faster and faster, the edges of my vision white, and the last thing I feel is all the muscles of my body clenching at once, and the floor rapidly approaching.

I close my eyes, and the world blinks out.

 


	8. Poor Aurora

Fawkes looks at the tiny girl, collapsed on the floor in a puddle of her own tears and snot. Fawkes was amazed by her stature—she seems too tiny to be real. Her eyes, when she is drawn up to her full height, are level with his navel.

However, he had quickly overcome his wonder when she opened her mouth. Cruel, selfish, and bloodthirsty. Hardly any different from his Meta Human brothers. The only true difference between them is that she is also clever enough to pick high-security locks. Fawkes would have thought that it was impossible if he hadn't watched her with his own eyes.

Now, though, she is silent and rather pathetic.

To think that she had reacted with such violence. Snarling, biting... hard enough that there are small marks on his arms and hands, even though she did not manage to break the skin. Her speed and intensity astonished him, and the surprise of the attack was enough to break him out of his rage. He is thankful that her assault had been cut short by fainting.

That particular part did not surprise him. From the hundreds of novels and texts that he has read, most classical literature mentions or even emphasizes the emotional and physical frailty of women, especially if they are slender and fair. The swoon of a woman amidst a traumatic event is commonplace, he thinks, and wonders at Jericho's sense. How could he bring a woman into battle, knowing that she may collapse at any moment?

Fawkes turns his heel and steps away from the girl, exploring the building that he had never seen. Some distant part of him remembers the layout, and he feels a chill, as if he is walking in the footsteps of a ghost.

Meta Humans are scattered through the halls, pieces of brain and flesh and clothing flecked across every surface. Fawkes, his nose particularly sensitive after so many years in isolation, is taken aback by the horrible scent. Urine, feces, bile, and blood. His brethren, having lost control of their bowels in death, reek so badly that he imagines that the smell must surely be detectable from a mile away.

He does not look at the corpses very carefully, despite the fact that many of these Meta Humans are ones that he recognizes. He feels quite sick from the scent and the sight, but there is another part of him, one closer to the surface than those ancient human memories, that relishes in the sight of carnage. That part _wants_ to look.

Alarming. Fawkes is no stranger to rage, having been born to sensations of extreme pain and fury. And he was quite certain that if he had been capable, he would have strangled his fellow Meta Humans many times over. But this... being _free_ and unhindered, his rage is something far more dangerous.

 _I will have to exercise caution._ With his size and strength, becoming angry with a human would likely prove deadly. The girl is lucky that she had given him the bronze horse, or he might have torn her in two instead.

He stops by the room that houses the GECK, and grimaces. In the center of the room is a pile of dried vomit flecked in blood, and a few paces away is a corpse. Stiff, his arms by his sides, his eyes closed, smears of blood all around him, as if he had been dragged through it. His countenance is withered and gray, much smaller-looking than when he had been jeering at Fawkes.

It seems that Carousel had not been lying. Her friend... owner... partner... (Fawkes isn't sure what their relationship was, exactly) is stone-cold dead. He sighs as he notes the clothes folded under his head, the used stimpak cast aside in the corner of the room, the contents of their travel bags tossed out in her hurry to attempt to save him.

Fawkes has no end of dislike for that foul man, but he cannot help but feel saddened to see the evidence of his suffering. If there had been a chance that he could have saved Jericho, he would have. But he cannot, and all that is left are the things that the man has left behind: his weapons, his bags, and his woman.

He lets out an explosive breath, and rubs his face. A decision to make. And a difficult one, too.

“Why could you not have trusted me?” he asks, as quietly as he is able. “It would have hardly been a risk to you—both of you armed with rifles and knives, and myself unarmored, with nothing but a sledge; now you are dead, and your friend is alone.”

The dead man speaks no words.

Fawkes, deeply conflicted, bows his head. “I do not believe that leaving your friend here, alone, would be spiteful of me. Were my only concern myself, then it surely would be a graceless act, but... to save a murderer with seemingly no remorse or compassion? It might be better for the world to merely throw her into the testing chamber.”

He marvels at himself: _I have left my prison for no more than ten minutes, and I am already considering murder._ What different is he, then, from the lesser of his fellow Meta Humans? To kill without mercy, to abandon without compassion?

Did he not note her strange behavior, the childish way that she hid behind her companion, as if a single harsh look from him would break her into pieces? And then there are other factors to contemplate.

Her leash.

Fawkes does not understand, but it is clear that there is something very wrong with Cara. Something broken. Damaged and dangerous.

 _Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that._ Words from a wise man, long dead.

Fawkes wonders if it is possible to rid this girl of her darkness, when he has never seen the light.

 

“Stop right there, monster!”

Fawkes pauses in surprise, looking up from the sleeping face of his young charge. Having done nothing but followed the tracks of blood and shells, he is caught off-guard by a voice shrilling at him from atop a battlement.

“Look, I don't want your nasty green friends to come running when I blow your head off, so... just go away!”

It is a child, Fawkes thinks, a _true_ child, one far younger than Cara. Having never seen a child before, he is unable to guess her age.

He shifts Cara in his arms, an attempt to shield her from possible gunfire rather than because of her weight. He says, “I apologize for startling you... I realize that my brethren are less than amicable.”

“You can _talk!”_

He attempts to twist his sneer into a smile, a somewhat difficult maneuver since the FEV rearranged his face, giving him overly large jaws and not quite enough skin to cover them.

“Yes,” he says. “My name is Fawkes. I was held captive in Vault 87 until my release. What is your name, child?”

“Knock Knock.”

“Hm?”

The child sighs. “That's my name,” she explains. “It's kind of silly, don't ask.”

“Very well,” he agrees, dipping his head.

“And that, _that!_ You've brought that evil mungo with you! Is she dead?” Knock Knock cries, staring over the edge of the battlements. “Did you kill her?”

“No, she is not quite dead. I intend to remove her from this place, and... I am not sure what will come after,” he admits with a shrug.

Knock Knock bites her nails, looks around, and frowns harder. “But... the only way out is through here. And I don't know about you, but that mungo is evil and I don't want her in here. She killed Princess and Stacey!”

“I had heard as much,” Fawkes says. “I was very sorry to hear of it.”

“You're weird for a Super Mutant,” Knock Knock mutters. “Well... I'd ask around, see what I could do to get you through here, but, our mayor is dying and we don't have a new one yet.”

“I suppose that living in a place like this, medical supplies would be hard to come by.”

The child nods. “Yeah, sometimes. It wasn't always this bad, but about a year ago, Sammy and Squirrel and Penny disappeared while they were scavenging. And we've lost some other kids too. There really wasn't a worse time for this to happen. The most we could do for Mayor MacCready was to stop the bleeding with some clean cloth.”

 _These poor children._ Fawkes pats down his pockets. “I... yes, I have several stimpaks. Would these be of help?”

“It would have to be an awful lot to get him to pull through,” Knock Knock says. “He's got five bullet wounds. Two in his stomach and three in his leg.”

“Then it is certainly auspicious that I have exactly five stimpaks,” Fawkes says genially. “If you allow us passage, I would be glad to give them to you.”

In truth, they are not his property; he'd found them in Cara's bags as he carefully replaced all of the things she had strewn about the room looking for them. However, he will feel better about helping her if he knows that she is able to make reparations, even if they are unwilling ones.

Knock Knock pulls a lever, and the gate rises with a rumbling almost as loud as Fawkes' voice. She skips down from the ramparts as he lumbers through, ducking his head beneath the wooden barrier, and looks at him nervously.

“You... you promise you won't hurt anyone, right?” she asks, shrinking away fearfully now that their height disparity is made all the more clear.

“I promise,” he says, looking down at her. He notes, with some surprise, that she is taller than Carousel. “May I ask how old you are?”

“Fourteen,” she says.

“Hmm,” he rumbles, glancing around the cavern as the child leads him, “And where are your parents?”

Knock Knock makes a face. “Gone.”

“Ah. I am... quite sorry.”

“Doesn't matter,” she says. “Even if they were around, mungos, er, _adults,_ as you'd say, they're not allowed in here. _Ever._ Mungos are nothing but dirty liars. Slavers. Murderers,” she adds, shooting Cara's unconscious form a venomous glare.

“I can hardly imagine you becoming a slaver or a murderer,” Fawkes says. “Isn't that a bit pessimistic?”

She shrugs. “People change when they grow up.”

Fawkes thinks about this for a bit. “Yes,” he agrees. “But remember that people can change both for better or worse. Immaturity giving way to calm rationality, for instance.”

He sounds condescending even to himself, and does not fault Knock Knock for throwing him a dirty look, but in truth he is not certain of what he has claimed. Nearly all of his knowledge comes from books—he realizes that he himself needs a great deal of maturing. Fawkes feels that he is well-versed in a wide variety of subjects, but he has no idea how to explain things to others in ways that they understand.

“Over here,” Knock Knock says at last, pointing at a ramshackle building labeled 'Essentials'. “Lucy, our doctor, she's looking after him-”

“HEY!” another young voice shouts, unexpectedly breaking towards the end. “Get away from my sister!”

Fawkes blinks at the pistol aimed towards him, and sighs. All this tension and fighting. It is vastly wearying, he thinks, and closes his fist around the barrel of the gun as the child fires. He grunts, feeling the bullet lodge into his palm like a burning-hot splinter, and squeezes.

The boy fires again, uselessly, and then leaps away when he realizes that his weapon is lost for good. Fawkes grips harder, no longer afraid of hurting the child, and then drops the gun in a mangled ball of smoking metal on the ground.

“I mean no harm,” he says, blood dripping from his hand, as other children come running with their own weapons.

“Bullshit!” another boy yells. “Get out of here, you big fat-”

“Cut it out, Eclaire!” Knock Knock answers. “He has stimpaks! He said he's gonna help MacCready!”

There is a pause as the children give each other uneasy looks, and finally a dark-skinned boy steps forth. “Alright. Head on in, then. I don't want you in here, but I'd also rather not be the next mayor.”

“Thanks, Joseph,” Knock Knock says gratefully, and leads Fawkes into the building. He glimpses what appears to be a classroom, but Knock Knock is motioning him forward into another room.

He smells blood, along with a sharp chemical tang. There is a boy covered in sweat, his chest heaving, and a girl close to his age watching him with no small amount of concern. The girl—Lucy, apparently—looks exhausted and does not glance up at his approach.

“Here,” Fawkes says, kneeling before Knock Knock. “Take them.”

The child snatches them up and darts into the room, as if afraid that Fawkes would try to take them back. There is hurried whispering between the two girls, and Lucy turns with a wide-eyed stare as Knock Knock continues. Eventually, the doctor nods and begins injecting the stimpaks.

Knock Knock returns, sighing. “He'll live,” she says. “Lucy says he might not even need all of them. We'll see, I guess. So... thanks.”

“It was the least I could do.”

The girl tilts her head. “But... why? You don't owe us anything.”

“No. You gave me a fair chance to explain myself, and you showed great courage by trusting me into your home.” Fawkes pauses, and then admits, “It is the first kindness that a human has ever shown me. I am glad to have met you.”

To his surprise, she smiles, her cheeks dimpling. “Well... thanks! I'm glad we met, too.”

Fawkes looks around, hearing her words as a sign of dismissal, but uncertain of what to say—however, she stops him before he stumbles over his words.

“I have something you might want,” Knock Knock says. “Actually, it'd be more of a favor if you took it from us.”

She leads him outside, and into another cavern filled with all sorts of junk. Bent tin cans, broken machines, and food waste litters the ground. Fawkes is uncertain of what she believes that he would find desirable here, until she points to a metal shape just a bit smaller than a refrigerator.

“As much as we know, it's been here forever. I don't know whether it was meant to be stationary, or maybe used by someone in power armor, but none of us can even budge it.”

Fawkes lays Carousel down carefully, and approaches the machine. A weapon. And by the looks of it, a very powerful one indeed. Padded leather straps suggest that it was intended to be worn like a backpack, which is supported by the fact that the hose connecting the gun to the pack is relatively short.

He doesn't like the thought of carrying such a powerful weapon, but he is well aware that the wastelands are a terribly dangerous place. If he is to keep Cara safe, then he had best be prepared. She is the kind of girl to have many enemies.

Fawkes lifts the battery pack, swings it into the air, and pulls it over his shoulders, ignoring the gasp from Knock Knock. A nodule on the side of the power source implies that the gun can be placed there to rest, allowing his hands to stay free, and he latches it, taking care to leave the safety on.

“It is not so heavy,” he says. “Two hundred pounds at most.”

He is also pleased that he will be able to tie Cara's bags onto the top of the battery pack. It should make travel a little easier; the only thing he will have to worry about dropping is the child herself.

“Squirrel said that it was a Gatling laser,” Knock Knock says, frowning. “Though we never let him try it out to see if it is. MacCready said he didn't want a cave-in.”

“That sounds like a wise decision,” Fawkes agrees. “I do hope I will not have to test its power.”

Knock Knock shows him back to the entrance, and raises the gates.

And Fawkes, with Cara nestled in his arms, steps out into the wastes. He is greeted by a hissing breeze, weeds and grasses rustling in the wind, and all the wondrous and magnificent sounds of the wastelands coming to life, roused by early morning light—and on the very edges of the horizon, the vibrant hues of the world's best sunrise.

 


	9. I'm Wishing

I feel a warmth all around me, as if I'm being cradled in a warm nest. I feel so relaxed and peaceful that I wonder for a moment, my eyes closed, if I'm at home in bed, and I'll open my eyes and see Daddy across the room, safe and asleep.

A jolt runs through my body.

Daddy is gone.

And I am not that girl.

My name is Carousel, and I am a girl without a leash.

I take in an enormous gasp and sit up so fast that I feel dizzy. Gulp a few times, rub the sand out of my aching eyes, puffy and swollen from tears. A massive hand touches my back, and I freeze as I take in my surroundings. I am nestled in a Super Mutant's lap, and Jericho is missing.

“It is good to see you awake,” Fawkes rumbles, and I can feel the words being drawn out of him, his torso vibrating from the force of his voice.

“Stay away from me!”

I am not sure where the scream comes from, but _god_ is it an awful sound. My voice is thin and ragged, and it breaks into a ghoulish rasp. My hair blows in front of my eyes for a moment, and my gaze is locked with the mutant's. His eyes are calm and patient.

“Where's Mr. Jericho?” I demand. “What did you do with him? Let me see him!”

Fawkes shakes his head slowly, his eyes not leaving my face. “I am sorry. He is gone.”

My fist clenches, hard, and I bite out, “My leash. My _leash. What did you do?”_

“That, too, is gone.”

I do not scream again, but instead collapse to my knees, shivering uncontrollably. The world spins. I am untethered, and without a leash I am adrift, unowned, and darkness closes in on my sanity with hungry jaws and sharp teeth. I feel as if there is a force gripping my spine, dragging me away from the earth and into the sky.

I sob, and in desperation I tear off my shirt and shred it with my knife—the Super Mutant makes a sound of surprise. He is saying something but I do not hear him. In a few moments, I have a length of dirty fabric, knotted together. Heaving out dry sobs, my body too dehydrated to cry anymore, I tie the end to Fawkes' wrist, and loop the other one around my neck.

_Safe._

I am kneeling before my master, clad in only a filthy strapless bra and my leather pants. And I may have lost my leash, destroyed by this awful, despicable monster, but that doesn't mean I can make one of my own. It is impractical, but it keeps me grounded. For now.

I take a deep breath, and close my eyes. I ask, “Why are you still here?”

“I did not want to leave you there, alone,” he says.

“I would have left you,” I point out, not opening my eyes yet. “If... if Mr. Jericho hadn't... hadn't... then we would have left you to die.”

He is silent for a good while, and I can feel the skin on my back begin to burn as the sun rises higher in the sky.

He says, “I would rather regret an act of mercy than an act of spite. Perhaps later I will change my mind. I hope you will not make me wish that I had left you there.”

“I gave you my leash,” I remind him, “even if you destroyed it. I'll listen to you.”

“No,” he says. “You are free.”

“ _No,”_ I snarl, and raise my head for the first time since binding myself to him. I leap up and my neck jerks, caught before I can stand up straight. “Don't say that! Don't you _ever_ say that!”

Fawkes stands slowly, relieving the pressure on my neck, and studies me for a few moments. His lips are pulled closed over his mouth, something that I hadn't realized that he was capable of doing, and then he says, “I have never been free. I had always dreamt of escape, but never of what might come after. For now, I will see you to your home safely. Do you know the way?”

I blink at the sudden shift in conversation, and look around. I think... yes, we're outside of Little Lamplight, about a quarter mile from the cavern entrance, our backs to an outcropping of rock.

“Yes,” I say hesitantly.

Fawkes nods, and then says, “I collected your bags. Would you... ah... find a spare shirt for yourself? I would not want you to be burnt by the sun.”

I look at him, head tilted, and then shrug. Find a blouse in my bag, button it up without another word.

I am broken, I realize, as I do up the buttons. If Fawkes had kept the pendant instead of breaking it, I would have been all over him, cozying up like I used to do with Mr. Eulogy and Mr. Jericho, whispering and caressing him. I would have asked, _Oh? And here I thought you might be happier if I took more off. Or are you just being shy?_ But instead, I am empty. I have nothing but this haze in my brain, and fear, and grief.

Home. Fawkes asked me to lead him to my home.

I consider Paradise Falls. I could run back to Mr. Eulogy and fall down crying and begging at his feet, and hope that he still loves me enough to give me a new leash instead of throwing me in with the common slaves.

But although that's where I've lived for most of my life—the part that counts, anyway, my life as Carousel—it is not _home._ Home is with Jericho, curled up in his lap, smiling at him in the morning, sleepy kisses, and warm food. It's the rough, vicious sex, the smell of his cigarettes and gun oil. Home is looking into his eyes, and knowing that I am safe.

Home? Home is _gone._

But the place where he lived is still in Megaton, an empty shell, and that is where I will find the things that he's left behind.

So that's where I go.

 

 

Fawkes watches the girl just as much as he watches their surroundings, more concerned about her mental state than potential enemies, but a task seems to do her good. Her eyes are still barren of emotion or thought, but her shoulders are straight, and she does not tire.

“Forgive me,” Fawkes says, “but how far must we travel?”

“Not far,” Carousel murmurs.

She falls silent again.

Fawkes is very much used to the silence, after so many decades of captivity, but he had expected to be conversing a good bit more than this upon traveling with another person. Indeed, that is why he had spent so much time into linguistics, the most difficult of subjects to Meta Humans, going as far as to achieve fluency in Chinese and French as well, uncertain of how language may have changed since his imprisonment. He is more than a little disappointed, but consoles himself with the thought that he will soon be amongst other people.

The fabric tied to his wrist itches. He tugs at it a little, stopping when he realizes that the lead is too short; Cara stumbles at the sudden pull and nearly runs into his side.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, and Cara only shakes her head. Then her eyes narrow, and she says, “Rifle.”

“You want-”

“Give me my rifle, goddammit!” she snaps, and Fawkes pulls it from his shoulders. Cara aims down the sights, and Fawkes notes, in surprise, an enormous creature pacing the fields a couple dozen yards ahead.

 _Bang._ Fawkes waits tensely, ready to catch her should she faint again, but Cara only breathes a quiet sigh and slings the rifle across her shoulders. Her eyes remain hard and focused.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

“Fine,” she murmurs. “It was only a yao guai.”

Fawkes watches her a bit more, still wary, but she sets off again, and he hurriedly takes a step before she is jerked to the end of her leash again.

“May I ask something?” he inquires.

“I guess.”

“Are these... leashes... common in the wastelands?”

Carousel snorts and glares at him, arching back her head to meet his eyes, as disdainfully as possible; despite himself, Fawkes is impressed that she is able to fill her expression with such disgust. “Hardly,” she says. “The only one who knows how to tame women is Mr. Eulogy. And he only picks the best. I was one of _three.”_

“Ah,” Fawkes says, wondering at the pride in her tone. “I confess, I do not fully understand. What is your, ah, relationship with these men? Eulogy and Jericho?”

“Mr. Eulogy raised me,” she says softly, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “He trained me, and then I was sold at a discount to Mr. Jericho. He wanted me anyway, but I was misbehaving in front of a stranger, so I guess I was lucky. I would have been punished a _lot,”_ she adds, biting her lip. “Mr. Jericho owned me for a few months. He was... very nice.”

“Then... you are a slave.”

“Mm.”

Fawkes finds this entirely mind-boggling. “What... how are you not pleased to be free?” This only earns him another glare.

“I _love_ my masters,” she spits. “Except for you, because you broke my leash. I hope you fall off a goddamn cliff.”

Fawkes raises his eyebrows, but he does not respond. It is now very clear to him that Cara is not wholly at fault for her behaviors and words.

It does not make her venom any less aggravating.

Cara points ahead. “That's Megaton,” she says, as if she has already forgotten her apparent hatred of him. “This is where Mr. Jericho and I lived.”

Fawkes' eyes move over the high steel walls, the robot at the entrance to the town, the heavy doors separating the outside from the people within. It doesn't look very welcoming to him, but he does not voice this thought, not wanting to alienate Cara any farther.

His attention is distracted by the sound of clattering, a filthy man at the entrance of Megaton throwing down a tin of baked beans and sprinting towards the robot. “Shit! Shit! Super Mutant! Let me in!”

Fawkes is opening his mouth to call out a reassurance when there's a _zip_ of something past his head, and an impact that catches him off-balance. He's nothing more than surprised, but Cara reacts as if she's been gutted.

“ _Fawkes!”_ She shrieks, tugging at him, and pushes him down behind a low ledge of rocks. Fawkes obeys her, bemused; he is forced to lay down to remain hidden from the town walls.

There is a very long and tense silence, and for a few moments they are pressed together, and all he can feel is the warm rocks against his side and belly, and Cara's chest pressed to his shoulder. Her heart beats hard and fast. A rare breeze sends dust and grit into their eyes, and at last Cara pulls away.

It is only when Cara touches his face, her hands shaking, and he feels a tiny prick of pain, that he realizes that he has been shot. Between her thumb and index finger is a bullet plucked from his temple.

“I did not feel it,” he admits sheepishly.

“They _shot you._ In the _head.”_

He reaches up, pokes at the tiny wound, and shrugs. There is a thin line from where the bullet impacted and scraped along his skull, finally resting a few inches before his ear. “I do not appear to be hurt,” he says. “At least, not in any meaningful way. Megaton has snipers?”

“One,” Cara says, rolling the bullet in her palm. She looks thoughtful, a little more calm. “Stockholm. Mr. Jericho had a high opinion of him. Are... are you sure you're okay?”

“Yes,” Fawkes says. He is surprised by how calm he feels. _I could have died,_ he realizes, _and yet I have not even broken a sweat. What are the odds that I was able to take a gunshot without significant injury? Are Meta Humans truly so powerful compared to humans?_ It's not as if he's been able to test out his abilities. He knows that if he were a pure human, he would have been killed instantly. _I had not realized that I was so different._ That past the green and yellow-mottled skin, the great strength, the rapid healing and incredible lifespan, that he would have even more differences to set him apart from the other people of the wastes.

It is... saddening, in a way, though he is glad to be alive.

Cara says, reluctantly, “I'm gonna have to leave you here while I convince Stockholm to hold his fire.”

“Will you be alright?”

He is concerned about the gunfire, but he notices the way that Cara's hands twist at the leash. Apparently being separated from him is far more difficult than stepping out into the range of a tense sniper.

“Can I have something of yours?” she asks, not looking at him.

He hesitates, then pulls off his Vault 87 jacket. She drapes it around her shoulders. The ragged fabric dwarfs her, a pale wraith in a shroud. Fawkes feels bare, not liking giving up one of the only remnants of his human life, but the way that Carousel clings to the jacket is enough to make him hold his tongue.

He unties the tether, his fingers clumsy, and Cara darts away from the safety of the rocky shelf, the strip of fabric blowing loose in the wind like a scarf. Fawkes tenses, but there are no gunshots. Instead, there is a very long pause, and at last he risks a glance over the top of the ledge.

Cara is standing in front of the door, speaking up to a man in goggles whose legs are dangling over the edge of the wall, leaning forward to listen. She makes a sharp gesture backwards, and the goggled man sees Fawkes. The man's eyes widen, and he reaches for his gun; instead of ducking down, Fawkes lifts his hands. There's a pause, while Cara says something urgently, and the man frowns.

Since he has not been shot at again, he takes this as his sign to come forward. And indeed, the man, whom he presumes is Stockholm, does not fire upon him again.

“I told you to stay there,” Cara whines, wrapping the leash around his wrist again. She leaves his jacket on. The hem reaches her knees. “You should have waited.”

“I was concerned,” Fawkes says.

“You've gotta be kidding me,” Stockholm growls. “A friendly Super Mutant? You weren't fucking with me.”

“You think I'd lie to you?” she pouts. “Ain't I an honest woman?”

“You couldn't convince me that the sky was blue if I didn't see it for myself,” Stockholm retorts. “You even twist the truth with Jericho. Where is that bastard, anyway?”

Even with the limited time he has spent amongst humans, Fawkes knows sorrow when he sees it. He saves Cara the trouble of answering: “Dead.”

“Shit,” Stockholm says. His face is drawn. “I'm sorry. I know you loved him.”

Cara does not give a direct reply to this, only looks towards the gates again. “Are we free to go inside, then?”

“Yeah, uh... what about you, man? You're just dropping her off, right?” Stockholm gestures at Fawkes, still holding onto his gun, although this time he seems unaware of his movements.

“Hm...” Fawkes rumbles. He is not sure what he should say. It is quite obvious that Cara wants him to stay, and that the sniper would much prefer that he leave immediately. _I should at least stay until Cara can bind herself to another man._

“I will not impose for long,” he assures the other man. He pretends that he does not see the angry expression on Cara's face as she glances at him, that he does not see her hand tighten on the lead between them. She may be irritated with him for now, but with whatever remains of her strange, self-imposed servitude, she will surely change her focus to whomever he hands the leash to. After that, Cara will be someone else's problem.

And Stockholm reluctantly allows them through.

 


	10. Something There

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeees, I know it's been forever, I just couldn't get the proper mood and voice down for this story for a long time... but hey, here it is at last. Hopefully it won't be as long of a wait next time.

I am not sure what I should feel.

My master is alive and healthy and safe and _strong,_ proving that I should be able to keep him until I die—watching him get shot in the head and not even flinch clinched it for me. So that makes me happy. And I am able to take him into Megaton and bring him to a nice house and take care of him. Which is also nice and exciting, too.

But.

It's Mr. Jericho's house, and Mr. Jericho is... is...

I still can't think about it, not fully. I force it to the back of my mind, trying to think about how pleased I am that my master is so powerful. He treads beside me, each footstep a stomp, and I puff my chest out in pride when the townspeople run away screaming at the sight of him.

“Hey, hey!” Stockholm shouts. “He's safe, come on!”

No one particularly pays any attention to him; maybe if they did, they'd see that I'm with Fawkes and that Stockholm is safe as can be. But it isn't until the sheriff steps out of his house with his shotgun leveled that anything's established; fortunately, he listens as Stockholm explains, and eventually puts down his gun.

“So it's your turn to be bringing home a stray,” Simms says. His eyes are sad and kind. “I'm sorry about Jericho, Miss Carousel. I know the two of you cared for each other. I had never seen Jericho that happy until he'd brought you home.”

I nod, my throat tight, and he continues, “The house is yours. No one's gonna argue about it. You were basically his wife.”

I pause, taken aback. “I... I was?”

“Kid,” Simms tells me, “Jericho wouldn't have left you for the world.”

_But he did._

I bite my lip, hard, and tears spring to my eyes. Simms tips his hat and turns away.

He left me. _He left me._

“Cara?”

My master is watching me, rust-colored eyes intent on my face. His expression is a little worried; he isn't bothered by all the townspeople shrieking about him, is he? Maybe I'll have to shoot some of them. I'm not ecstatic about having a fucking ugly Super Mutant for a master, but he's _my_ master, and I _will_ protect him.

I feel a wave of relief at seeing my leash gripped in his fist, and I try to smile. “Master. Let me show you home.”

If Fawkes is unhappy about me calling him that, he doesn't say anything, just gestures for me to lead the way. His footsteps boom behind me. I swear, he's so heavy, it makes the dust rattle and rise every time he moves. But when we cross that pipe to get to Mr. Jeric—my house, he takes a real careful step across, as if he's afraid he'll crush it if he steps on it.

It's metal, so it's probably good, but it's kinda nice to see him concerned about it. Mr. Jericho wouldn't step on it either, but that was just because it'd tripped him one too many times. He'd swear at it occasionally when he was real drunk, and once when we were out on the town, drunk off our asses, he got into a one-sided screaming match with it. It was kinda funny.

I lead him past the empty house to my own, much lower and squat. Push open the door and wait for him to go in. He doesn't, so I enter, and Fawkes has to duck his head to get in. The top of his head very nearly reaches the ceiling, but it's just high enough for him, so that means it's high enough for me.

“What do you think?” I ask.

The Super Mutant pauses. “It is... nice.”

“Mm,” I agree. My eyes drift over the house. It's just the way we left it. _Just_ the way we left it.

The empty bottles of booze, Jericho's spare shirt tossed onto the back of a chair, his pack of smokes on the table. He'd liked to sit and smoke after dinner, or before, while he was watchin' me fix it for him. His last cigarette is still stubbed out in the ash tray. We'd eaten Cram before we left.

I don't realize I'm shaking until Fawkes puts one heavy hand on my back.

I try everything. I try to push Jericho from my mind. I try to think about Fawkes instead, how to protect him. I try to look at anything else that doesn't remind me of him—the metal flooring, the windows—but it's too much. It doesn't work. This rusty slats of metal that serve as floorboards—these were the same ones that Jericho'd walk across each morning while he drank his black, grainy coffee. That was the spot where we'd tossed our clothes before retreating to the bedroom. This was where we stood when he kissed me. And that rusty section there was the place where he told me he loved me.

Looking at the windows doesn't help either. I run to them, my tears falling freely now, and I break out into sobs as I look outside. I'd stood here so many times, with Jericho's arm around my waist, reflecting on my life, thinking about how happy I was, how lucky I'd been to be owned by such a fine man.

I almost expect him to come up behind me and snake his arm around my shoulders, a smoky exhalation as he flicks the ash off his cigarette. To kiss my forehead and say, “Whatcha lookin' at, baby doll?”

But he doesn't, _oh god he doesn't!_

“No,” I moan, and sink down until I'm crouched before the windowsill. “Mr. Jericho...”

Fawkes kneels beside me.

“This is all your fault!” I scream, suddenly enraged. “If you hadn't broken my leash, I wouldn't feel this way! I wouldn't still be crying over him! You—you _broke me!”_

“No,” Fawkes says. “I freed you.”

_“I don't want to be free!”_

And I sob and sob and sob until Fawkes picks me up and puts me in Jericho's bed. I grab his pillow and press it against my chest and bury my face into it, smelling what's left—the scent of smoke and gun oil and that sharp masculine scent that is innately _Jericho._ I distantly realize that it's stupid to be crying so hard, Jericho's scent will last longer if I'm not sobbing so much, but it's the closest I can get to him right now and I just want him _so bad,_ I can't stop myself.

Fawkes leaves the room, and for once I'm glad about that.

 

* * *

 

I don't get up for the rest of the day, and Fawkes doesn't try to make me. I see him sitting in the kitchen when I leave the bed to pee, but he's only sitting on the floor, cross-legged, his head bowed. He looks up at my passing but I look away so that we don't make eye contact. I don't look at him at all on my way back from peeing, I just crawl back into bed and throw the sheets over myself. Hug Jericho's pillow to my chest and cry for a few more hours, until I'm so exhausted and dehydrated that I can't keep my eyes open.

In the morning, Fawkes brings me a honey roll, still warm and steaming, as well as some Brahmin milk.

“What... what's this?” I ask, blearily. My eyes are still puffy and irritated, and I feel awful.

“I purchased this from the Brass Lantern,” Fawkes says. “There were some caps on the table. I hope that is alright.”

“You're my master,” I say, but it comes out half-heartedly, and I can't find the strength to say it as I should. It doesn't have the amount of worshipful reverence that I normally say it with, and in fact it sounds almost disinterested. Mr. Eulogy would have beaten me if he'd heard me say something so tonelessly. But Fawkes doesn't admonish me, and I'm glad. He'd probably kill me if he struck me.

The honey roll is too sweet. Sickly-sweet. I eat it anyway. I feel like vomiting.

Fawkes says, “I want to find a new master for you.”

“You don't want me,” I say in the same hollow voice.

“No,” he says, “I do not. I have no desire to own a person.”

I don't reply, just stare into the glass of milk. The cream on top is separating.

“But,” Fawkes says, “I want to ensure that you are safe and happy. I would not send you to a man who would hurt you or abuse you. You must go to someone who will treat you well.”

“You treat me well,” I mutter.

He looks at me, concerned, and hesitates. “I thought that you hated me.”

“I do,” I say. “You hurt me. You let Jericho die. You weren't strong enough to break out of your cage and stop him. You destroyed my life. You broke my leash. I hate you.”

I take a deep breath. “But... you're my master.”

The Super Mutant shakes his great ugly head, and I see his lips pulling back even farther, his sneer growing; he looks a little saddened. “That is why I must leave you with someone else.”

He is determined, so I don't reply, but I know I'm not going to let him just... run off somewhere without me. He is _mine._

“Who do you like best here?” Fawkes is asking. “The sheriff? Perhaps Mr. Stockholm, the sniper?”

“You want to leave me with the man who shot you in the head?” I ask, horrified.

“Did you not say that he was good friends with your former master?”

“Well... I wouldn't call them _friends,”_ I say slowly. “They just talked sometimes. They liked each other. They're... a bit similar.”

“And he will treat you well?” Fawkes asks.

I frown. “Simms wouldn't let him do anything mean.”

“Will he care for you?”

I shrug, uncomfortable with the questioning.

Fawkes goes silent and sits down. Not on the bed, I notice; it would probably break if he did, anyway; but on the floor near my feet. And he simply looks at me.

It's a little creepy, to be honest. I've never had someone stare at me so intently, except for Jericho. Although he really only did it when we were naked and he was enjoying my body, watching me cum, or staring at me after we had finished, as if he was ready to eat me up.

But this is different, and I don't know what Fawkes sees when he looks at me. Those small, glaring orange eyes, shining with pity and compassion and hell knows what else.

I can't return his gaze for long, so I look back at the milk, and I swirl the glass to keep the cream mixed in better. It floats up again soon enough, so I gulp it all down.

Fawkes takes my glass and puts it on the floor with the plate, still sticky with honey.

“Did you eat?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “I intend on leaving shortly.”

I startle. “Today? You're leaving so soon?”

He nods.

“Stay another day,” I beg. “Please.”

I don't know if I can handle so much change so fast. I want to hold onto what I have left, to have at least some measure of power over my life.

He nods again, slowly. “Very well. Then, I will go out and find something to hunt. I... argh... I do not think that you would have enough caps to keep me fed,” he says, sounding a bit embarrassed. “Meta Humans eat a great deal.”

I fiddle with the sheets. “What are you gonna kill?”

“Ah... probably a mole rat, or a... what was that other creature? A yao guai?” Fawkes hums. “Yes. One of those.”

“I wanna come with.”

“No,” he rumbles. “You will stay. You are not strong.”

I reach forward to touch his arm. “You're just gonna leave me here! And not come back!”

“I will not,” Fawkes says, “I promise.”

I start crying all over again. _“Mr. Jericho promised, too!”_

It's almost too much to force the words out.

Fawkes sighs as I clamber all over him, grabbing at his Vault suit jacket—he pulls the sheet off my bed and drapes it around my shoulders. He wraps me in it snugly, as if I'm a fucking baby or something, and sets me in his lap. I calm down a bit, knowing that he's going to stay now, and he runs his fingers through my hair.

“Then I will stay,” he says quietly, and it's a slight shock to feel his bellow of a whisper reverberate all over me. “I can eat at a later time. It is no problem for me; there were many days when my Meta Human brothers forgot to bring food for me.”

I press my face against his belly. _He's so enormous._ I know I'm tiny, but still... how much must this guy eat, anyway?

“I didn't know that Super Mutants needed to eat at all,” I confess.

He shakes his head. “We may go for great lengths of time without food,” he tells me, “but we must eat or we will die. There was a... chute, in my cell, where they would drop meat for me. It was always uncooked, and of... mysterious origin. I dare not imagine what they were feeding me.”

“People,” I say simply, and Fawkes shudders.

I shrug at his reaction and shift around. It's not surprising. Everyone knows that Super Mutants eat people. I think it's weirder that Fawkes is creeped out by it. Hell, even I've eaten people before. Mr. Eulogy served it to us girls once or twice when special guests defied him or tried to cheat him. He'd have the guys out for a celebration, and they'd all barbecue the corpse and slow-roast it and then he'd feed us girls the best pieces. Tender meat from around the groin and buttocks, pulled out by a roasting fork, and then taken to Mr. Eulogy's fingers. We'd take his fingertips into our mouths and lick the grease from him. It wasn't that bad.

I guess I shouldn't tell Fawkes that though.

“Fawkes?”

“Yes, Cara,” he says.

“Thank you for staying with me.”

“Of course,” he says gently, “but remember that I will be leaving soon regardless. Tomorrow, in the morning.”

“Will you say goodbye to me?”

“Yes. I will deliver you to Stockholm and then depart.”

“Where will you go?”

“I am not sure. The other Meta Humans spoke of different settlements that they would go to in order to kill and capture more humans. They did not know the names of them, but... I would like to find these places and help those that my brothers have harmed.”

I scoff. “Why? Not your fault that they're all assholes. You don't have to work to make up for them. That's stupid.”

“If I do not,” Fawkes asks, “then who will?”

I think about that for a little, irritated that Fawkes likes asking such difficult questions. “I guess... no one, then. Okay. Well, it sucks, but that's how life is. It's fucking retarded to try to fix everything that they've done. It's not like it's gonna make any difference.”

I pause. “Unless,” I say, “you're gonna try to kill all of the Super Mutants?”

He frowns. “I would never. I hope that I can solve these problems without something so barbaric as... violence.”

I laugh. I laugh and laugh and laugh until I'm sobbing again, and Fawkes hunches over me, blocking out the light from the ceiling, this nasty, ugly looming monster, and he's making odd noises, as if he's trying to soothe me.

 _I guess... he is._ I feel a little better that he's trying so hard, and I hug his waist. I can't even get my fingertips to touch when I hug him because he's so massive.

It's so fucking dumb. This monster, this _Super Mutant,_ he could kill me so easily, could kill all of Megaton if he really wanted too, probably—he could set off the nuke and I bet he'd survive. And he's talking about _mercy?_ About trying to solve problems without _violence?_ Give me a fucking break!

I start laughing through my tears again, and then collapse, shuddering, worn out again. I've got my right arm pressed close to my chest, my head resting on his huge thigh, and I'm so close to Fawkes that all I can see is the movement of his belly as he breathes. It's startling how muscular he is. He has almost no body fat, nothing but raw, brutal strength.

I touch one of his lower abdominal muscles, a green mound the size and approximate hardness of a rock, and run a fingertip over the blue vein that throbs just beneath the skin.

Fawkes picks me up and puts me back on the bed, expressionless.

He says, “Would you like something else to drink? You have been crying a great deal.”

“There's beers in the fridge and some whiskey on the shelf.”

He frowns. “I have read Tolstoy, Cara. Alcohol does not solve problems. Tell me, what would you rather drink? Water?”

I sigh. “I don't care.”

He comes back with a bottle of water and tells me to drink all of it.

I roll my eyes. “Yes, doc.”

“I only want you to be safe and healthy.”

“Well, that's one of us, then,” I mutter.

Fawkes sighs in return. “Things will get better, Cara.”

“Alright.”

“They will,” he says. “I will not promise it, since you seem to dislike it so, but I will try my best to help your recovery.”

“Fuck off.”

Fawkes leaves the room, but he sits down just outside the room and stays there. I roll over onto my belly and hug Jericho's pillow again.

Outside, Fawkes is muttering. _“Something there is that doesn't love a wall... That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it, and spills the upper boulders in the sun... And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.”_

I squint under the covers, thinking, remembering. Is that... poetry? It sounds familiar. Something from the Vault? I think maybe Mr. Brotch read it aloud in class one day. Maybe _I_ read it aloud in class.

_“I let my neighbour know beyond the hill; and on a day we meet to walk the line... And set the wall between us once again.”_

Satisfied that Fawkes won't leave me for awhile longer, I go to sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WQYsGWh_vpE


	11. I See the Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fawkes tries to leave, but Cara isn't going to let him go that easily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That moment when you tell someone, "Oh, it won't be that much longer til there's another update!" and then you release the next one five months later...  
> (forgive me)

“I'm not letting you go,” I say firmly.

Fawkes lets out a pained sigh that rattles the windowpanes. He's brought Stockholm into Jericho's house, and the man is looking around curiously, having never been invited in before. And now he's trying to shove me off onto him.

 _Bastard._ This asshole thinks that he can get rid of me so easily? He's underestimating me. I fought so hard to survive Mr. Eulogy's training. I fought my masters, I fought the slavers who took me, I fought starvation and depression and insanity. But I made it, didn't I? Fawkes isn't going to get away. Not until I die.

Maybe not even then.

“You will be safe with Stockholm,” Fawkes assures me. “I am certain. Mr. Simms told me that he is a gentleman of character.”

“What if he isn't?” I pout.

“Come on, kid, you know me,” Stockholm says in exasperation. I glare at him as if I'm distrustful of him (which I am, to an extent), but Jericho liked him, and so that makes him an alright person, I guess. I'm just being extra stubborn. I don't want to give them an easy time. I'm putting my foot down on this.

Fawkes lets out another growling sound, one that makes Stockholm twitch and reach for his knife. The huge Mutie looks like he's glaring, but the corners of his eyes are pinched in a way that makes me think he's distressed.

_Something I can take advantage of?_

If I were still in the Vault, I might have given a great argument. I might have come up with all sorts of compelling reasons. I could'a sounded like a goddamn orator. That kinda thinking, though? Coming up with legitimate reasons, sensible arguments? It's hard for me now. I don't like thinking much. Even reading hurts my brain, so I don't look at words.

If I were still that girl, I bet I could convince 'em both. I'd be all smart and shit and give them no cause to disagree with me. But now all I've got is killing and fucking.

What comes out instead is:

“I don't like Stockholm.”

The man behind me groans. “Fuck's sake.”

Fawkes seems to listen to me, though, although he doesn't seem very impressed with my declaration either.

“If you are truly upset with Stockholm, maybe a different person would be better? Perhaps Lucas Simms. He is sure to be an upstanding man. Or...” he hesitates, “would you rather a female companion? I would understand not wanting living in close quarters with a man again, not so soon after... well.”

The spaces between his words are punctuated by his growly breaths and the low rumbling noises that he makes when he's thinking of a word. I'm used to the odd way he talks by now, having spoken to him multiple times, but it's clear that he's unnerving Stockholm. He's not quite putting his hand on his knife, but I see his face twitch with repressed expressions of fear and uncertainty.

I make a face. “With a woman? Fuck no.”

What good what that do, anyway? I ain't good at cooking or cleaning or any of that domestic shit, and that's all that a lady would want me for. Unless she was a raider, or I guess if she wanted me for fucking too.

Crimson and I messed around all the time to try to get Mr. Eulogy's attention. Making out, groping, scissoring, oral, you name it. It worked like a charm, so I'm pretty goddamn good at navigating a woman's nether regions. Still, I don't know how it would be without the reward of a big fat cock at the end of the day.

“Here,” Fawkes says, apparently growing tired of my protests. He passes the end of my makeshift leash to Stockholm, and I squint my eyes as the world tilts around me.

In sudden clarity, I see him. The dust on his face, the sunburn and peeling splashed across his face. The dirt trapped underneath the edges of his fingernails. The way the goggles he always wears have cut into his face, leaving a tiny callus by his left temple. His eyes, god, his  _eyes..._ he's so beautiful.

My training is trying to make me see Stockholm as my new owner, and I won't let it. With a monumental effort, I shift my gaze to Fawkes. Stare at his heaving chest, the myriad muscles and veins and solid build that house this whackjob. The radiant feeling in my chest settles down into disgust and irritation. _He's so strong, and yet it's all wasted on him._ Why God ever decided to put a total fuckin' pussy in a Super Mutant's body, I'll never know.

He looks relieved.

_You're not rid of me that easily._

“She prefers to be led by hand, I think,” Fawkes tells him. “Her original tether is... gone. She needs extra time and care with... with what has happened.”

 _He sounds so grave._ If his deep, rumbling voice weren't so halting, the gravity of his voice could make a girl weep. I wonder why he's being so careful. Why he's putting out so much effort. Even with him trying to run away from me, he's more polite than warranted.

I would have killed him. I wanted to kill him. I would have fucking unloaded my gun into the glass if I thought it would break, way back in Vault 87. Would have smashed through the door and beat him to death, until his fat green head was broken open and his fucking brains were splattered all over the floor. I thought he deserved it, for upsetting me, for saying bad things about Mr. Jericho.

I guess it doesn't matter, though, right? He's mine and I'm his.

And he's not fucking leaving me here.

I stay silent as he gives Stockholm more instructions, telling him to make sure I get a bath, to watch over me. They take my guns. I watch them as they unload every last weapon from Jericho's house and lock them away, and resist the urge to scream, to snap and explode in a million fucking pieces because they're touching Jericho's things. I wanna fucking kill them for messing with the sanctity of this house. They're changing it, disturbing the picturesque domestic scene that we'd had set up before that fuckery with Vault 87. Fawkes thinks I might be suicidal. I don't know if that's right or not. I don't want to think about it. Maybe because if I did, I'd see into that screaming chasm of loss and fucking end it all.

I lost so much. I lost everything.

 _Stop it,_ I tell myself, savagely. _Focus._

I glance between the two of them, staring at Stockholm long enough to try to fool them both, but looking at Fawkes when I don't think either of them will notice, forcing my brain to pay attention to him, to resist the conditioning despite the fact that his monstrous hand isn't holding my tether.

It helps, of course, that he broke the horse. If he'd given _that_ to Stockholm, I'd be lost for good. I would have preferred that, honestly, but we're in this situation now and there's nothing I can do about it. I'd rather lose everything I have to get rid of this raw and aching wound in my chest, but Fawkes ruined that for me and now I'm going to make him pay.

He's going to regret breaking the tether.

“You will be alright,” Fawkes tells me, seriously, and he has to bend his shoulders and head to keep from hitting the ceiling. His squinted orange eyes are fixed on me. “There will be trials to overcome in the upcoming days. So much to fight past. Please be strong.”

I make a disgusted expression, and spit at his feet.

He rumbles again, a small noise deep in his chest, and very carefully places a hand on top of my head. It's heavy, and lands a little bit too hard, and I let out an indignant squawk and glare at him. But he rests it there, his hand neatly spanning my entire skull. So much brute force, delicately touching me, like he's worried that the little amount of force he's exerting could kill me.

I know he could. One squeeze of his hand and I'd be dead.

That might be better.

Fawkes turns and leaves. The door closes on Stockholm and I, two feeble little mortal humans, held together by an old strip of knotted fabric, and nothing else. The real bond is being stretched through the air, intangible, and thinning every passing moment.

Nothing I can do now but wait.

 

* * *

 

The sunlight is dimming now, and Fawkes has been gone for a good two, three hours. I asked him where he was headed, and he only shook his head at me. I stood with Stockholm at the entrance, though, to watch him leave, and I very carefully noted that he went north.

“Don't you get bored up here?” I ask, perched on the Megaton lookout wall. There's nothing to see but wasteland and dust, for miles and miles around. The view might have been spectacular two hundred years ago, but now it's just depressing.

“Oh, all the time,” Stockholm agrees. He's sitting beside me, farther away from the edge, drinking a bottle of purified water. “That's why I keep a pack of cards with me. Solitaire. Spider. I usually put on the radio. Not much else to do.”

 _Depressing indeed._ Bored, I fiddle with my Pip-Boy until the Enclave radio station comes on.

Stockholm lets out a long breath. “Damn. I wish Three Dog's station was still on.”

“I've never heard it,” I say.

“It was better than this shit. At least it wasn't looped recordings. Never any live music, of course, but at least there would be news reports and stuff.”

I pause. “Mr. Jericho didn't really like music. He said it was a waste of time and energy.”

A short laugh. “That sounds like him.”

We sit in silence for awhile, and I wonder what Stockholm's thinking. Is he upset from being reminded about his friend? Or is he more concerned for me?

I think about my shotgun, locked up somewhere in Stockholm's house. Think about how difficult it would be to pick the lock on his house without anyone noticing, get in, find the cabinet, pick _that_ lock, and get out without anyone raising some kind of alarm.

Fat chance. I guess that means I'll have to steal the weapon Stockholm has now.

I eye him, as he shuffles his worn deck of cards, glancing up at the horizon now and then for enemies. He's got a sniper rifle and a slim dagger on his hip. I can't do anything with the rifle; I'm only good with pistols and shotguns; and it has too many fiddly bits that I have no idea what to do with. I don't know nothing about aiming it, or maintaining it, or even what kind of ammo it uses. So it'll have to be the dagger. Good thing I'm pretty damn handy with those.

Mr. Eulogy loved to see a girl who's good in close combat. No matter her strengths, brute force, speed, or smarts, he said that there was always something fuckin' scary—and hot—that a girl could do with a knife. All three of us girls had training with up close weapons. Clover liked her butcher knife, and Crimson had a serrated dagger.

Mine, though, was a slender shaving razor. Three inches long, the sort of shiny thing any well-off raider might keep in a travel bag. Mr. Eulogy honed my skills until they were as sharp as that blade, made me into a deadly whirlwind, capable of killing a man with nothing more than a whisper.

Stockholm's dagger isn't quite the same as what I was trained with, but it'll work well enough.

I smile, kicking my legs as I gaze off into the sunset. I'm thinking of my target. “Fawkes is probably far off by now, huh?”

A pause from behind me; I glance back, only to see Stockholm frowning at his cards. He's not paying attention. Makes it all the easier for me.

“Hm? Uhm, oh. Sorry?”

“Nothing,” I say, with a small laugh. And then I kick him in the temple with my steel-toed boots, and he cries out and flinches, reaching for his weapon; another kick renders him unconscious, his eyes rolling back into his head. I steal his belt with the dagger and its fancy leather sheath, cinch it around my waist.

Looks like I'm all set.

I think of Fawkes, where he might be by now, and frown. Take a moment to check Stockholm's pulse. _It's strong._ He'll be awake in a few minutes. Maybe less. I don't feel relieved, necessarily, that I didn't kill him; I honestly don't give a shit. But it would make my master upset, and I don't want that.

I drop down from the look-out, down outside the entrance.

And I follow Fawkes's tracks, the only set heavy enough to make a print rivaling the depth of the caravan ruts.

 


	12. Where Do I Go From Here?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I told ViciousKitten that this'd be out earlier... it's a day or so late, but it's thanks to her that y'all get the next chapter. Hope you enjoy it! I'm going to try to get the next one done soon too.

It doesn't take Fawkes long to find the first Meta Humans.

He had been planning on living amongst humans, but as he walks, his pace slows, and he contemplates his decision more carefully. Truth be told, his dealings with Cara have left a bad taste in his mouth, for more than one reason. Not only has she been difficult to deal with; an unruly combination of stubborn and crass; but it causes an unfamiliar pain in his heart to see how damaged she is. Having learned more about her, more about her life, he's not so sure that he'd like to be around humans again. Not because he wants to avoid more Caras—he's rather help them—but he fears running into people like those who broke her in the first place.

That being settled, the first moment he spots a Meta Human settlement, he approaches.

There's a group of them living four miles outside of Megaton, in a relatively-stable looking brick building. He's relieved that they do not shoot on sight; he can't imagine that he would attract animosity from his brethren immediately, not without opening his mouth first, but then again, he was locked up for an unknown but terribly long number of years for simply being different. He can't trust that the differences do not extend outwards as well.

What else might set him apart, he doesn't know. Whatever it is, the others loathe him for it.

The Meta Humans have done well at reinforcing themselves. A sign out front reads, _Jim's Doughnuts,_ but other than that, there is quite literally nothing to welcome a person into coming closer. Barbed wire stretches around makeshift fences and sandbags; Fawkes shudders to see a few human heads stuck to wooden poles—how _barbaric._ It seems that they are well-entrenched; decor aside, they've also smashed out the glass storefront windows and have replaced them with slotted metal plates, where one could presumably glance out, aim, and fire without having to worry about taking much damage in return.

There's a Meta Human soldier patrolling the outer defenses, a minigun in hand. Fawkes is aware that most humans can't differentiate between his kind, but after having spent so much time with the same jailers, he marvels over the novelty of seeing a new person. This Meta Human has far more scars, a broader face, heavier lines on the bridge of his nose and on his brow, as if he's used to scowling more heavily. It appears that the eastern front is more dangerous than the territory around Vault 87, because none of his jailers had ever looked so battle-worn.

“Hello,” Fawkes says, and the pacing Meta Human comes to a halt.

Fortunately, his brother does not appear to be alarmed or irritated by his presence. He simply shifts his hold of his weapon and asks, “New?”

“Yes,” Fawkes says.

“Where from.”

It's growled out without inflection, with the familiarity of an oft-repeated query.

“Vault 87,” Fawkes replies, and the other Meta Human grunts.

“Lucky to be alive,” he says. “Humans have killed many there.”

“I was left behind,” Fawkes says in return, not certain of what details to give, and the other Meta Human nods. He's staring at him, and at first Fawkes is fearful, worried that he might be locked up or attacked again, but then he realizes that the other is simply looking at his Gatling laser.

“Good gun,” he says admiringly, in a sort of grudging way, as if he doesn't want to admit that Fawkes can claim any kind of superiority over him.

“Thank you,” Fawkes says. “It was a gift.”

That might have been too _human_ of a thing to say, because the Meta Human stares at him for a long moment.

Then, a small, awful smirk stretches his face. “Supposed to be joke?”

 _He's assuming that I killed someone and took it from their corpse._ Fawkes smiles weakly in return. It's probably better to let him think that. “Ah... yes. Your name?”

He would have asked more politely, but he's already feeling worried about how he might be coming off to his brother. He's sure that he already seems unnatural. He knows that his brethren value concise wording.

A shrug. “Guard.”

“Your name is Guard?”

“I guard doors. No better name.”

“Good to meet you. My name is Fawkes.”

“Fox? Sneaky name, not fit for Super Mutant. Stupid.” Guard glares at him in reproach, then gestures to the storefront, seemingly dropping the subject; Fawkes might have corrected him, but he thinks it would be worse if Guard were to find out that he'd named himself after a human. “Well. You here to join? Trade?”

“Join,” Fawkes says, “but just for a short time.”

“Ugh.” Guard rolls his shoulders, jerks his head towards the building. “Come inside and meet Jim.”

“Jim?” Fawkes is surprised. _Another human name?_

“Jim,” Guard repeats. A nasty grin pulls at his lips. “As in _Jim's Doughnuts._ Makes doughnuts out of weak humans! Hahahaha!”

Well. Fawkes supposes he should have guessed that one. It also answers a question that he'd never wanted to ask, about just how many of their kind eat human remains. It's... not a particularly comforting realization. Cara had said as much, but he hadn't wanted to believe her. He had wished, at that point, that she would have just said nothing. Now, he's grateful; it's keeping him from being sick.

Humans. He really _had_ been eating humans, in Vault 87. Probably for his whole life. The raw and sometimes rotting flesh of other sentient beings. Nausea and horror fight for first place, pounding at his guts. _Dear god, forgive me._

The inside of Jim's Doughnuts is about as appealing as the rest. Blood is splattered all over the floor, along with bullet casings and dried piss. Sackcloth bags of hanging meat drip blood, splashing onto the floor every few seconds. The countertop of the shop seems relatively intact, the cash register still sitting on the far end, but the rest of it seems to have been converted into a butcher block—there are deep gouges in the otherwise smooth surface, blood pooled and coagulated in the grooves.

And there are more Meta Humans inside, including one hulking man with an unpleasant leer and a tiny name badge: _Hi, I'm Jim!_ It's pinned to the breast pocket of his leather vest, and looks rather pathetic against the Meta Human's bulk.

“Jim,” Guard says. “This is Fox. He wants to join.”

 _Apparently he's their leader._ The prospect of new blood brings Jim to his feet, from the floor where he'd previously been slouched.

“Scrawny,” Jim grunts. Twists his head to the side and glares. “Small like _stupid human.”_

Fawkes holds his tongue. At eight feet tall, he's one of the shortest of all Meta Humans, but he's certainly not human-sized. Besides, he's broader than some of the others; and after extensive hypothetical calculations of weight in his years of captivity, he guesses that he has about one hundred pounds on one of the smaller men in the room.

“You fight like human, too, sneaky Fox?”

“No,” he answers, holding himself up straighter.

“Sneaky sneaky,” Jim says again, eyes glittering. It's quite obvious that he's attempting to get a rise out of Fawkes, and he isn't sure why he's trying to get Fawkes to snap. _Is he asking for a fight? He will have to try much harder than that. Years of captivity have taught me patience._ And he's nothing like any of his hotheaded brothers. He would never be tempted by such clumsy goading. “Sneaky... like a nightkin? Will you find Stealth Boys and hide from the stupid humans?”

“I have no reason to hide,” Fawkes says. He wonders what a nightkin is, or if maybe it's just another strange phrase that the Meta Humans have invented for something normal.

“Hngh... well... okay,” Jim says grudgingly, apparently disappointed to have not upset Fawkes further. “...good at fighting?”

“Good enough,” Fawkes says, not bothering to admit that he's never fought or even killed a thing in his entire life. His only encounter with a hostile creature was the yao guai, in the wastes with Cara, and she had killed it herself.

“Argh... you'll do well enough,” Jim dismisses. “Same rules as anywhere else. Look for weapons. Kill the humans. Bring food.”

“Certainly,” Fawkes agrees, and wonders how on earth he is to manage staying with these people without hurting a soul—let alone trying to convince them to live peacefully.

 

* * *

 

I lose Fawkes' tracks after about two miles, where there's grassy areas the size of a few acres dotting the sparse landscape. The vegetation is hardy enough to spring back after a half-ton of fuckwad stepping on it, and I'm not good enough at hunting to try to figure out where he's gone from here. Mr. Eulogy never really got into that. Us girls weren't meant to go out, especially not along. We were playthings and bodyguards, not goddamn bloodhounds.

So, with an irritated snarl, I resort to old habits, and I go on the familiar trail up north. I can abandon him for now; inwardly, I'm pleased with my restraint. I'm not giving up on finding him, I'm just being smart. Being patient.

Fawkes _did_ say that he wanted to help out towns that had been ravaged by Muties, right?

So, naturally, I head towards Bigtown. The path should still be cleared out. It wasn't that long ago that Jericho and I were up there last—it feels like barely any time at all. And it's even less time before I'm back up there, heading towards the tall fences of crushed-up cars and tangled barbed wire.

I wonder what I'll find there, if Dusty and Kimba are still alive. If there'll be anything left aside from dried blood and shell casings littered across the dry and empty town.

The bridge creaks as I cross it, and I glance around warily before snagging the scuffed-up pistol from the table that Dusty normally sits at. _I wonder why it was left here... easy access?_ Shit. Either way, it doesn't bode well. It's not Dusty's weapon; the man favors a .32; but it makes me uneasy to see that he's gone. Means that there could be anything here.

I scan the rest of the buildings, shading my eyes with the flat of my hand. _Maybe the town's been abandoned?_ I wouldn't be surprised. With just two people left, with Super Mutants _knowing_ that the citizens are ripe for the picking, no defenses, it'd make more sense for them to risk the open wastes and venture out towards Arefu or Megaton. Lucas Simms, that dumb fuck, he'd probably take them in without batting an eye.

_“Hey everybody, did the news get around... about a guy named Butcher Pete...”_

From a cracked door comes the tinny sound of a radio. I bite my lip, checking the safety on the gun. I feel... a little unnerved. Weird. I'm never worried about things, but for some reason I am, today? Danger has never bothered me before.

Maybe it's because I don't have my master. Maybe.

_“_ _Oh, Pete just flew into this town... and he's choppin' up all the women's meat!”_

I take a deep breath and push open the door. I barely catch a glimpse of the inside before I flinch. There's an immediate _bang,_ and I dart back; there's a smoking hole in the door, having narrowly missed my shoulder.

I roll my eyes without letting go of my gun. _Dusty and Kimba._ It'd been Dusty to take the first strike, and his hands are shaking. Kimba hasn't even reached for her weapon. The two of them were sitting at the table, eating what looks like squirrel meat, before I'd interrupted them.

“Hell of a shot, Dusty,” I say to him. “It's a wonder you haven't rescued your stupid friends from the Muties, with an aim like that.”

Dusty scowls and drops his gun, letting it slide back across his shoulders. “Dammit, Cara. Don't sneak up on me like that.”

“Better her than a Super Mutant,” Kimba says.

Dusty mutters something derogatory and then asks, “Hey, where's Jericho, anyways? You're always right up his ass, I'm surprised he hasn't shown up by now.”

“He's...” I start, and then take a second to swallow. I haven't had to reiterate what's happened since Fawkes. _It's like he knew. Like he was trying to spare me from having to say it._

I wonder if that's really what he was thinking. If he was trying to do me a kindness. I don't know anymore. Since Jericho's dead, it's hard for me to figure out people's motivations. I can't tell up from down. It's like when he died, he took everything good of me along with him.

“He's dead,” I say, finally.

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't you fuckin' mess with me,” I spit. “You ain't sorry one bit.”

Silence.

“Sure,” Dusty says at last, “but it's nothing to celebrate, either.”

Well, I guess I can tolerate that.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” Kimba asks. “If he's gone, then you should have stayed in Megaton. Unless you're out here looking to die.”

That might have been the case if I didn't have Fawkes. Maybe that'll come later.

“I'm not here to die,” I say, and give Dusty and Kimba a mean smile. “I'm here to kill.”

 


	13. Part of Your World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fawkes experiences fellowship with Super Mutants for the first time.
> 
> A big thank-you to blacKatDP for helping motivate me to get this chapter out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who haven't noticed, yes, each chapter title is a Disney Princess song. I was kinda waiting to see if anyone would say anything, but I'm too darkly/giddily amused by the horrible irony of each chapter to stay silent on the subject any longer. Every song is a jarring juxtaposition between the fluffy-light Disney sweetness and the tragedies going on in the story.
> 
> This one in particular is especially amusing to me, and I really just kinda want everyone to envision the hilarity of Super Mutants going about their brutal daily lives to the tune of "Part of Your World"? Special bonus for cutscenes back to Fawkes sadly watching his Meta Human bros in Vault 87 from the confines of his cell, wishing he could be friends with everyone, lol
> 
> btw fuckin dying because the opening lines of the song are about how Ariel has all kinds of human junk meanwhile Fawkes in Vault 87 had absolutely fucking nothing except for his ragged clothes
> 
> also, I take all credit for the horrifying images of a mermaid Fawkes singing in the ocean. please, someone, do art of this

The first night amongst the Meta Humans goes better than expected.

To be honest, Fawkes isn't sure _what_ he thought would happen, if he believed somewhere subconsciously that the whole situation would go up in flames—metaphorical _or_ literal. But as night approaches, the rest of the Meta Humans relax. Guard still paces, taking rounds outside and then heading back in with a grunt or comment, but he laughs and grins more easily in the darkness. The other Meta Humans, Smash and Tire Iron, pull out human jerky and share, grudgingly.

Fawkes declines, when Tire Iron extends a handful of dried meat in his direction. “I'd prefer to find something fresh.”

Tire Iron pushes the meat at him again, forcefully, so Fawkes is forced to stand and make as if he is going out to hunt. He is not sure if he will. He is so hungry, yes, but... he has never killed before.

“I was wrong.” Jim's lips pull back in a feral grin. “You are good Super Mutant. Bloodthirsty. I like it.”

Fawkes accepts the compliment with a gracious nod, although he winces internally. _Blood, killing. Is that all my brothers think about?_ It would not surprise him, but he hopes that is not the case. He cannot be the only one with morals and feelings and thoughts beyond food and murder. He can't.

Perhaps he'll have more of a chance to ask about these things later. Out of everyone, Guard seems to be the friendliest (which doesn't speak well of their security defenses, seeing as he's supposed to be on high alert), and so he's relieved when Guard offers to accompany him.

“Good hunting at night,” Guard says as they leave the restaurant. “Yao guai, radscorpions. Not many humans though.”

Fawkes makes a sound of affirmation, though he tries to keep it noncommittal. _Good. I suppose that means there's a much smaller chance of us running into anyone._

He's so hungry. It wasn't anything that happened often in the Vault; he barely moved enough to build up an appetite before his captors were throwing another slab of slimy meat into the chute. A sound like a molerat caught in a ceiling fan, wet slaps as it came thudding down against steel walls. It was a sickening noise, but Fawkes always ate his meals dutifully, never certain of which might be his last.

He hasn't eaten in five days though, and at the thought, his stomach growls. He can go for longer without food, probably as long as ten days without feeling too light-headed, but he fears his hunger nearly as much as he fears captivity.

Desperation can do terrible things to a person. He wonders how many steps away he is from his less-discerning brothers. How long it would take for him to be hungry enough to kill and eat another person.

He shudders and keeps walking.

Fortune favors him tonight, though, because before they go too far, a mutant hound rushes out of the darkness; Guard bellows out a laugh and his minigun whirrs to life, unleashing a hail of bullets that fells the dog before it can get within five yards of them. The creature falls with an agonized whimper, and Fawkes shivers at the sound. Something about the anguished cry is bitterly reminiscent of Cara. The sight of the broken dog bleeding on the ground mingles with his memories of Cara sobbing in his arms, and he feels sick.

“Ahh, yes! Perfect!” Guard is crowing, and pokes the corpse with the barrel of his gun. “This be good eating! Not as good as a Brahmin... but still, fresh meat!”

“I can carry it back for you,” Fawkes offers, pushing back his nausea, and Guard allows him to take hold of the slain beast. Blood drips onto Fawkes' hands, and he tries to ignore the sensation of warm red pearls of ruby sliding down his skin.

“I haven't eaten in days,” Fawkes admits.

“Hmpf,” Guard says. “Bad hunting?”

Well, if there's any time to probe about Meta Human morality, it's now.

“No,” Fawkes says, “there were humans, but truth be told, I'm not fond of eating humans.”

Guard wrinkles his nose. “Agreed,” he says. There's a pause, and Fawkes dares to hope, only: “Too stringy.”

 _Ah._ Of course he would say something like that. Of course he would... but Fawkes still feels the leaden pull of disappointment in his throat.

“Guard?” he asks, and the other man lets out a questioning grunt. “How long have you been a Meta—er, a Super Mutant?”

Guard shrugs. “Don't know. No way to tell.”

“You don't keep track of the days?”

“No need. Simple mission. Kill the humans. Find the green stuff. Make humans into Super Mutants.” Guard shrugs again, looking unbothered, but Fawkes can't imagine not knowing. Well. Having the _ability_ to know and just... not use it. He had no concept of time in the Vault, but it was the not-knowing that nearly drove him to insanity. Not knowing whether it was day or night. Not seeing the stars. Not breathing fresh air, nor feeling the wind on his back.

If anyone tries to force him into captivity again, Fawkes realizes, he would much rather kill himself than face another unknown number of years in fluorescent purgatory.

 

* * *

 

Jim is inordinately pleased to see them arrive with the dead dog, and makes a show of taking out his knives and butchering the animal. Smash and Tire Iron stand close enough to be flecked with the blood splatter, letting out short, encouraging vocalizations; it seems that despite their meal of dried jerky, they're eager for fresh food as well.

Fawkes tries not to be too disgusted, but he's unnerved by watching Jim manipulate the still-warm flesh, slicing tendons, stripping the hide. Everything is neat and quick, wasteless; Jim saves everything. He squeezes the innards to rid them of their natural stuffing, depositing the remains in the corner, where they reek and steam. The guts get washed and hung, like macabre garlands; the steaks are set to roast while Tire Iron works at stuffing the intestines with limp and fatty shreds of meat for sausage.

In a short while, they have dinner. Jim claims the majority of the sausage, while Guard requests the slow-roasted head. Fawkes is pleased and relieved to not have to eat the organ meat, and takes his dog legs and settles himself in a corner to enjoy.

The meat is gamier than expected, but... it's _cooked._ Fawkes can probably count on one hand the number of times he's had cooked food. It's a balm to him, to be able to finally take a deep breath and rest his head back against the wall with a full belly. He can relax here more than he could with Cara, always worried that she would do something irrational and dangerous.

He wonders if he should feel this way. To feel like he's finally welcome, despite his history with his brothers. Something about it seems wrong, almost, that he had been so abused by his captors but is now able to feel safe enough to close his eyes. True, they're different people... but yet he'd never felt this way about the humans. In Megaton, he'd feared being driven out or killed by the townspeople, even with Cara, Stockholm, and Sheriff Simms to vouch for him.

Maybe he belongs here after all.

Guard still isn't back yet, and Fawkes isn't sure where he's wandered off. Fawkes excuses himself as Tire Iron tears into the slow-roasted liver.

Jim's Doughnuts has a men's restroom, and that's where Fawkes heads now, hoping that the plumbing still works. He spots a hulking mass, pauses—“You come in, there's two urinals.”

Fawkes has never used a communal restroom before, but something about it feels familiar, and he gets a hazy image of Vault 87's bathrooms, before he was changed, the lights bright and steady overhead.

“Hahaha!”

Fawkes jerks in surprise, startled by the sudden noise; Guard is laughing uproariously. Fawkes' contentment is interrupted, when he realizes, of all things, that Guard is laughing at the size of his penis.

“So... _big!_ Like a _human!”_

There are few things that cause Fawkes to lose his patience. But _this? Really?_ Of all things...

“Don't be childish,” Fawkes growls. A quick glance shows him that Guard's privates are small and shriveled, the testes dried out and useless, the whole package no larger a walnut. He averts his eyes, not sure whether to be offended, embarrassed, ashamed, or some combination of all three.

“Hahaha! You... nothing but green human!” Guard, unfortunately, is still laughing. “Not Super Mutant at all!”

Fawkes lets out a low sound of disapproval, both with Guard and his words, dangerously similar to the kind of thinking that had gotten him locked away. He'd been an anomaly to them, something _wrong,_ neither fully human nor Meta Human, and that had been cause enough for them to lock him away for years upon years. If Guard starts thinking the same way...

“It's alright,” Guard rumbles, still laughing, as Fawkes buttons his pants. “Most of us have parts. Me. You. Tire Iron was woman. Says that he's pure Super Mutant, but, he's lying. Only Jim and Smash have nothing at all.”

“Oh,” Fawkes says, surprised. “I thought that most of us were... well... purely asexual.”

Guard shrugs, and admits, “Reason why we are an outpost.”

“Just because of...” Fawkes gestures blankly, and Guard nods, laughing again.

“Too human to stay at Vault 87,” Guard says. “Tire Iron has woman parts, I like to talk. Smash thinks too much. Jim reads.”

Fawkes raises his brow. “He _reads?”_

“Keeps _Art of War_ in his bag,” Guard mutters, dropping his voice with a conspiratorial grin. “Doesn't like anyone to know.”

“And... you? Do you read?”

“Sometimes,” Guard says.

“What do you read?”

“Things from before the war,” he says, and his voice almost sounds wistful. “I try... read books before the overlords burn them. I should not. But I did, I do. And that is why I'm here.”

 

* * *

 

A week passes before the others start to open up to him. Guard, of course, is talkative, and Smash is always reticent, but Jim begins to trust him to scout around their territory, and Tire Iron speaks with him now and then, usually offering him food. Fawkes connects that with what he's read of feminine generosity and wonders if some part of his personality is intact from when he was a human woman. But that sort of thing is too personal to ask.

Guard, however, is more vocal, and freely offers information about his past. And he asks questions as often as he answers them.

“You remember anything?” he asks one day, as they patrol the perimeter together.

“Hm?”

“From... before.”

Fawkes concentrates for a few moments, until his head aches; there's nothing, as always. Just that aching pain in his head, the threats of a migraine. “No. Never. Only... muscle memory, brief images. Nothing about who I was, nothing about my name.”

“I was a man,” Guard says, and Fawkes huffs out a laugh. Guard glances over, annoyed, and hits him with the butt of his minigun. “Not... that, we've had this conversation. I mean... I remember _being_ a man. Don't remember the change. Don't remember being taken, not... not really. Don't remember name. But... had... brown hair... a wife... or was it my sister...? Don't remember. But. I had... daughter. Remember that.”

Fawkes and Guard are quiet for a moment.

“What was she like?”

“Pretty,” Guard says. “Blue eyes. Had my hair. Brown. She liked to smile. We lived... on a farm... don't remember where. Or how long ago.”

Guard pauses, and then, with an aching sorrow that Fawkes feels like a fist in his gut, he adds, softly: “She was nine when the Super Mutants came.”

“I am sorry.”

“Gunned down. I was taken. Screaming.”

Fawkes's fists clench, and he grits his teeth. He can't stand it, hearing about Guard's suffering. How is it that he's still here? How could he have lost his family, remember it, and then fight for the same people who destroyed his whole world?

“Why I don't eat humans,” Guard says suddenly, not looking at Fawkes. “Not because meat is stringy. My daughter...”

“I understand,” Fawkes says quietly. “You do not need to defend yourself to me. I don't eat humans for the same sort of reason. I simply don't have the heart to do it.”

“You... you _do_ understand,” Guard says, looking up at him with surprise. His voice goes rough and desperate as he adds, “No one else would agree! No one else. They hate the humans! They all hate them!”

“I don't,” Fawkes says, hope rising in his chest. “I never have.”

“I am not Guard because I like to watch for them,” Guard continues, the words rushing out of him in a flurry. “I do it because I don't want them to come near us, I don't want them to die. The men... I don't care about, but... with children... with ladies... I let them go! If I can. If no one's around, if Jim isn't looking, I make them go away. Tell them I'll kill them if they come back! Because I will, I'll have to...! Jim would kill me if he knew.”

The last is added in a whisper.

“I will not betray you,” Fawkes rumbles.

A very long pause. They make two laps around the building before Fawkes speaks again, and the silence is heavy, punctuated only by their stomping feet, the sound of rubble shaking nearby as the two of them walk past.

“I... there was a girl...”

“Ah,” Guard says. “From before?”

“After,” Fawkes says, and Guard stares at him, incredulous.

“After!”

“Yes,” Fawkes says, laughing a little at the other Meta Human's shock. “Cara. We traveled together for a time.”

“Didn't try to kill you! And you didn't try to kill her!”

“No.”

“Hmm,” Guard says, letting out a low sound, as if he's contemplating it, and Fawkes dares to hope one more time. He imagines that Guard is envisioning a different world, a different future. A peaceful land where humans and Meta Humans live together in happiness. Where they can befriend and protect each other.

And Guard says, “That... sounds good.”

Fawkes smiles so wide his face hurts, and he only answers, “Yes.”

There is another silence, less tense and more companionable.

Guard says at last, “Jim would kill both of us.”

“At least you know that it isn't just you anymore,” Fawkes says. “Wanting peace is not so strange.”

“We have orders, though.”

“Orders can be disobeyed,” Fawkes says, but Guard is shaking his head now.

“No, no! Are you mad? We cannot!”

“What is wrong with breaking rules?” Fawkes pushes. “If it is to save lives, how can that possibly be wrong?”

“We have orders for reason!” Guard insists. “Hierarchy! Laws! The Masters and Overlords and Behemoths, they are all so much smarter and greater than us! They have the plans for the future. They see... the big picture! If I let humans go now and then, there is no problem. But to go against everything we are asked to do? Do you want to pit us against each other? Brother against brother?”

“I... of course not!”

“Stupid,” Guard says affectionately, “like human.”

Fawkes lets out a low noise of discontent, and Guard pushes him lightly.

“Don't think so much,” he says. “Better this way. We have orders and missions. Sooner or later, wasteland will be ours. No more humans.”

“You are truly agreeable to the idea of all of them dying?” Fawkes demands. “Even the children?”

It is a low blow, especially after just learning about Guard's daughter mere moments ago, but he makes the dig anyway. It's so vitally important for Guard to understand this, that all of these humans are people too. They are someone's daughter, someone's son. They all have fathers who are men like Guard used to be.

“They will die or they will leave,” Guard says, and he gives Fawkes a look, like he knows what he's just done. Trying to make him feel guilty. “I hope they leave. But is their choice. Mercy when I can give it. If not... just... sad. Nothing I can do.”

“I hope you will change your mind,” Fawkes says.

“Doubtful,” Guard says. “I—”

The rest of his words are cut off by bullet spray. Holes pepper Guard's sides and back, and Fawkes stares in horrified uncertainty for a long moment. There is shouting, and the metallic sounds of guns reloading, but Fawkes barely hears them, for all of his attention is upon his fellow Meta Human. The broken gasp that he makes in the next moment as his body reacts, the instinctive flinch of pain. The blood splattering onto the ground, fat droplets.

For a man who often calls humans _bleeders,_ there is an awful lot of blood.

“Guard!”

“Get down, stupid Fox!” Guard snarls, his voice hoarse. “Humans!”

That should be obvious, and Guard is certainly staring at him as if he's a complete fool, but Fawkes whirls around in utter confusion, and looks at the group of tough-looking men in leathers. They are heavily-armed. One of them has a flamer, another, a minigun. There's three other men farther back, two with shotguns and one with a pistol.

They are evenly matched. One human for each Meta Human.

Idly, still standing, the shock of the situation keeping him immobile, he wonders which one is his.

The next spray of bullets downs Fawkes himself, and he lays in the wreckage behind three sandbags and raises a hand to his chest. His skin is already bruising, and there are light burns from the heat of the bullets on his sternum. But there is no blood. His skin is unbroken. He is knocked down, a little winded. Nothing more.

“Jim!” Guard shouts, his voice strained and guttural.

There is a pause, and the humans advance upon their position. With a crash, the doors fly open, and Jim, Tire Iron, and Smash come out guns blazing, roaring, “Kill the humans!” Jim's mouth is wide in vicious laughter, charging with a machete. Fawkes sits up at the sudden noise, and tracks Jim's movement, towards the humans. It seems as if there will be an inevitable crash, two colliding forces, inexorable.

_This isn't right._

Fawkes stands, his chest expanding, his mouth opening; but he is silent in the face of slaughter. A human's head is lopped off with Jim's machete, and the Meta Human keeps running, bowling through the rest of the humans, who scatter before the monster consumed by bloodlust. The human with the flamer holds his ground, and Tire Iron screams as fire licks over him. He refuses to drop his weapon, and instead falls to one knee. The fire burns even as the man reloads his weapon with more flamer fuel, and fuses Tire Iron's clothes to his body, charred flesh bubbling out through and over the holes in his clothing. Fawkes can do nothing, even as Smash is shot fifteen times by the rifleman, as he falls to the side, then forward, and is eviscerated on one of the same sharpened pikes that the Meta Human outpost had set up months ago. He can do nothing, as a thrown grenade puts an end to Smash's feeble struggling, as the flamer starts up again and burns Tire Iron even more badly, and his eyes dry up in his skull and his fingers melt together and go slack.

He can do nothing, as the human riflemen are killed by Jim, as Guard growls and stands up and crushes the skull of the man with the flamer, using nothing but his left hand.

And then he finds his voice.

“Stop!” he cries out, and it is the only sound other than the wind, because the human with the pistol is trembling and splayed out on the ground with his legs cut off, and Jim is relentlessly running back towards the remaining human with the minigun.

“All of you, stop!” Fawkes shouts again, and Jim is gunned down; he cannot understand why this is happening, why they will not listen.

“Fox, you stupid, _stupid_ fuck,” Guard snarls, “fight, or we will both die!”

Fawkes doesn't know what to do, what he might manage, with the massive, humming Gatling laser on his shoulders that remains unfired, with his immense strength that could kill a human with one misplaced gesture, what he might do without actually killing anyone. Desperately, he comes forward and pushes Guard out of the way when the human with the minigun fires upon them again. The bullets sting his side, but once again, he is more hurt by the impact than the bullets themselves. The slugs lodge a half-inch beneath his skin and go no farther.

“We must not fight!” Fawkes insists, staring into Guard's eyes as they crouch behind their barricade. “How can we allow anyone else to die? When there has been so much death already?”

“Do you think _they_ will stop?” Guard roars at him, and breaks off with harsh cough. Fawkes checks over his friend's wounds briefly; they are dangerous, but nowhere near deadly for a Meta Human. Guard's face twists. “Do you think I will spare a _man?_ People who attack us and kill our brothers?”

The human with the minigun rounds the corner, and before Fawkes can stop him, Guard reaches out, grabs the human with one meaty fist, and smashes his skull open on the asphalt.

And there is silence.

Guard sighs.

The absence of noise and action is so profound and jarring that it nearly deafens Fawkes at first. He is still numb, looking around; he sees the bullet holes in the rubble around them, sees Tire Iron crouched protectively around his weapon, the metal still sinking into the green-and-black flesh as it burns and settles. Jim's eyes are open but sightless, still grinning viciously. Smash is facing away from them, and all that is visible is his calf on the ground, still trying to support his body from where he had fought to keep himself from falling onto the spike and barbed wire.

Fawkes sees all of this, and he does not know what to say. Everything that he has known for the past week is gone. The only Meta Humans he has ever befriended are dead, all but Guard.

And even Guard is wounded.

“Now,” he says, looking away from the carnage, “I see why our brothers not like you.”

Fawkes's mouth is dry, and he cannot speak.

“Two of us left against stupid Talon bleeders,” Guard mutters. “We should be ashamed.”

 _I am._ He wants to say the words, but they would ring false.

He is not ashamed. He is sad. Afraid. Small words, for Fawkes. He would normally come up with something more profound, especially in such a moment, but...

Right now, he is feeling very small indeed.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	14. Poor Unfortunate Souls

“We will have to move on,” Guard is saying. “Report back to Vault 87. Or go elsewhere. The others will have to know that Jim's Doughnuts is not ours any longer.”

His mouth stumbles over Jim's name, and Fawkes does not miss that slip, the small weakness. Instead, he feels shame pour over him, the shame that Guard had wanted him to feel when he had first began berating him. _If I had not been so focused on peace... if I had known what to do... if I had acted sooner, warned Guard, been more attentive, spoken sooner..._

If, if, if. Their brothers are dead and so are the humans.

“Are you alright?” Fawkes asks, instead.

“Will be,” Guard mumbles, and pokes at his bullet-ridden sides. “Most are still inside. Need... tweezers. Or knife. You will help.”

“Of course,” Fawkes manages. There is nothing else to say.

Fawkes stands up, and helps Guard to his feet as well. Guard pauses, and Fawkes follows his gaze: “One is still alive.”

It's the human with missing legs, hacked off at the knee by Jim during one of his wild passes through their ranks. His chest is heaving, fast and shallow. Eyes open, a little glazed, but clearing as he spots their movement.

Guard reaches for his minigun, and Fawkes slaps his arm down. “Wait.”

“You're mad,” Guard snarls. “Bleeder killed our brothers! Are you Super Mutant or not?”

“I am,” Fawkes agrees, pleading with him, “but he is injured, and he is still just a man.”

“Soft,” Guard says, and pulls back his lips, showing his teeth. “Stupid. You are traitor.”

“Don't do anything rash,” Fawkes says sadly, and approaches the man.

 _Talon bleeders,_ Guard had called them, and Fawkes wonders if Talon is the name of some sort of group or organization. All the men _do_ have some sort of white sigil painted onto their armor, the hard plastic chest and shoulder pieces that fit over their leathers. Fawkes has never heard of them before, but he wonders if they are common in the wasteland. Guard had certainly known who they were upon sight.

The Talon member is wrapping shaking fingers around the trigger of his gun, struggling to lift it, and Fawkes steps in close before he can take aim.

“It is alright,” he soothes, and after seeing the man's eyes widen in horror at hearing him speak, Fawkes thinks that there must be some sort of difference from calming down men versus women. Soft words and gentle touches had worked for Cara, but he supposes that it will not be effective for a battle-hardened man in great pain.

“Don't move,” he orders, changing tactics, and kneels. “You are bleeding out. I will attempt to apply a tourniquet to your injuries, if you will allow me.”

“Stay away from me!” the man all but whines, his voice much higher and breathier than Fawkes had expected. He scrabbles in the dirt, and it is so very obvious that he is in terrible pain, but he keeps moving back, his hacked-off legs writhing ineffectually on the blood-soaked earth.

“I will not hurt you,” Fawkes says, and it is a promise.

“Mutant bastard!”

Fawkes inclines his head. “Even so.”

“Stay... stay away...”

Again, Fawkes is reminded of Cara, and decides that the pitiful and defiant attempts at keeping helpful parties at bay must be a solely human characteristic, because if he were half-dead and laying in the dirt, he would certainly not refuse aid were it offered. That comparison only gentles him further, and his heart goes out to the man—he may not be an innocent, not like Cara, not a tormented and injured girl in need of intensive love and care—but the similarities are there regardless.

“I cannot,” Fawkes says. “I will help you. Do you have any stimpaks or painkillers?”

Without taking his eyes off of Fawkes, the Talon member shifts his head. “There. Middle pocket of our squad leader's bag.”

Fawkes rumbles out a sound of approval, and rummages through the leather bag that is still clipped to one of the men with a rifle. He puts aside a few packs of cigarettes and other drugs that he does not recognize; there are no stims to be found.

“Perhaps they were used?” Fawkes asks aloud, frowning, and moves on to search the next compartment. “Or maybe they fell into another pocket...”

“Fox, down!”

_You stupid fool._

Fawkes wasn't expecting the shout, nor the bang of gunfire. He hadn't expected the Talon man to pull himself upright, to have the strength left within him to steady his hands, aim, and shoot at near point-blank range.

He also does not expect Guard to have drifted closer during their exchange. He does not expect Guard to have been paying attention to what he believed to be a waste of time, a traitorous effort to save an enemy life.

Therefore, he does not expect Guard to step in between them.

The bullet hits him, at a distance of five feet away. Severs his spine so that Guard collapses like a weary old building, with a great crash, dust rising around the trio in the ensuing silence. The bullet continues through, snags Fawkes's hip, and exits cleanly. Even with Meta Human resilience, Fawkes realizes that he would not have survived this particular attack. Not at point-blank range.

The human's eyes roll back in his head and he collapses, a moment later. The gun clatters to the ground.

Fawkes is on his knees in an instant. “Guard!”

Guard is still alive, but blood flecks his face as he grimaces and coughs. The burst of activity stains his teeth red. _Punctured lung,_ Fawkes decides. _No matter. He is a Meta Human, surely he will be alright._

He blinks and shakes his head, then, as Guard trembles in the dirt, and realizes that he is only denying what is in front of him.

Due to his idiocy, Guard is dying.

“I am sorry,” Fawkes says desperately, and takes Guard's shoulders in his hands, helping to still the tremors. “I should have shot him, like you said. I shouldn't have stopped you. If I hadn't—”

Guard mumbles, “Stupid Fox. Talk too much.”

The fact that there is still, _still,_ a note of affectionate humor in the quiet reprimand, it cuts Fawkes to the very center of his soul. He lets out a short cry, what might have been a laugh or might have been a sob, and his hands shake as he tries to make Guard more comfortable.

All this time, he'd been fooling himself. Telling himself that humans were innately good, that all people needed was a bit of kindness, Meta Human or otherwise. He'd come to believe that the Meta Humans were the aggressors, not the humans. He'd seen people dragged into Vault 87 and made into monsters. He'd wanted peace between both sides, an end to senseless conflict.

But that wasn't quite right, was it? Because it was obvious that his people had done nothing; the Talon men had opened fire upon them before Fawkes could even spot them to call out a friendly greeting.

And what about Cara? She might be an innocent, but it was humans who broke her and tormented her.

So much viciousness, so much needless death.

“Enough,” Guard says, as Fawkes sweeps aside the rocks from beneath his head. “Not much time.”

“Stims,” Fawkes says hopefully. He glances at the bag, and wonders if the Talon member “Stims work on Meta Humans, do they not?”

“No. Stop... stop. No point.”

“Guard...”

“Listen to me,” he says, and his tone is urgent in a way that Fawkes has never heard before. Orange eyes gleam brightly, narrowed with focus and intent upon him. “Fox. There is... no shame... in wanting peace. But you cannot stand on both sides.”

Fawkes closes his eyes briefly to the field of carnage around them. _He is right. Had I done my duty, at the very least, Guard would not be dying._

“I chose Super Mutant,” Guard says. “Even though... they took daughter. Sometimes, I wonder, if... made the right choice.”

His hand closes around Fawkes's wrist. “There is nothing that is forcing you to choose Super Mutant. But you must... pick side.”

“I don't want anyone to be hurt,” Fawkes says, less confidently, and Guard lets out a low laugh.

“That worked well... didn't it.”

Silence. Wind blows and stirs the dust around them. The strip of fabric hanging off the end of Smash's armor twists and flutters. There is a sound like a low sigh, a hiss through the dry grass. Fawkes stays quiet, and realizes that the only other noise he can hear is the beating of his heart.

Guard's eyes are still open, but unfocused, looking up at the sky.

Fawkes stands and gathers supplies. Takes the Talon leader's bag, slits the leather, and ties it around his waist. There are some tins of a substance called Cram inside. He empties the rest of it out; he doesn't need the cigarettes or any of the other junk in there.

Before he leaves the doughnut shop behind, Fawkes flips the safety off of his Gatling laser, his eyes hard, the line of his mouth grim, lips pulled taut over his teeth.

Guard was right. The next time he sees a human, he will show no mercy.

 

* * *

 

It's been a week, and I've still seen no sign of Fawkes. Other Super Mutants, sure. Whole big fucking horde of them were here yesterday, and it was only thanks to the fact that most of them had melee weapons that we're all still alive. Set up Dusty and Kimba on the rooftops and we shot most of 'em to hell before they could even get near us. Kimba was nearly beheaded from a thrown crowbar, though, and we had to use the town's last stim on her to wake her up.

I'm glad she's okay now. I ain't getting antsy or anything, I'm still being patient, but it's better to have the extra person around. Fawkes will come eventually, I'm sure, but until then, I wanna have another meatshield for the muties.

Besides, Dusty would be fucking worthless if she was gone. He's got some sort of dumbass tragic hero vibe going on where he moans and groans and complains about everything and how life is meaningless and—

“—we're all gonna die,” Dusty whimpers from the next roof over, as we hear feet marching towards us. “Oh my god, it's over, we're going to die—”

“Shut the fuck up, Dusty,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. I rearrange myself into a more comfortable position, settle myself, and line up my gun to the head of the first approaching Super Mutant. It's no Winchester, but it's a good gun. One of the benefits of having everyone in the town dead is that there's a lot more guns to choose from.

Not much ammo, but that just means I need to make my shots count.

There's only three of them this time, but one of them has a minigun and another has a Fat Man. Not the best odds, I guess, because even though it's three on three, their weapons are a hell of a lot more deadly than ours. One of those mini nukes gets anywhere near us, we're gonna be in little pieces.

Only thing in our favor is that we've got the higher ground, and they haven't seen us yet.

“Dusty,” I murmur. “You got the minigun guy. I'm goin' after Fat Man.”

“Maybe we should just hide,” Dusty is saying, as I line up my shot. “I mean, there's only three of us. We can just stay up on the roofs, they won't—”

I let off two quick shots, and the mutie's skull explodes in a big mess. I whoop and the Super Mutants let out roars and rush the town, the minigun's barrel rotating faster than I can see, almost blinding with the flashes of light. Bullets tear through the buildings; Kimba screams and pulls back, and I'm not sure if she's been hit or not.

Dusty is shooting at the mutie with the minigun, just like I asked him to, but his aim is fucking terrible as usual. He hits everything _but_ the mutie; I guess if nothing else, he did at least clip the last one's thigh, but that one has a club and not a ranged weapon, so that's not really that helpful.

Two more bullets, and I've got the one with the minigun. _Dammit, one bullet left... good thing that those fuckers didn't bring any more of their fatass buddies._ Five bullets for an entire fight. I'd better make this last one count...

Of course, I miss that one. _Figures._

“Dusty,” I call. “Your gun!”

“What?”

“Your gun!” I gesture impatiently. God knows I can use the damn thing better than he can.

He takes a second, pats his pockets. His face is pale and sweaty. “I'm out of ammo!”

“God fucking dammit,” I growl, and drop down from the rooftop.

It's not the first time I've gone into close combat with a Super Mutant, and truth be told, I'm eager to get my hands dirty. I palm the knife I'd stolen off of Stockholm, press the hilt into my skin. It's got a good weight to it. I'd prefer my razorblade, but it's probably best to have a heavier knife for a Super Mutant anyway.

“Hey, fatass!” I yell, and the mutie's mean little eyes snap towards me.

I'm curious, just how much they understand. They're so fucking stupid, you know? But Fawkes is real smart, or at least he thinks he is. I'd never really seen them as anything more than big animals with guns. I mean... sure, they talk. But it's more like dumb parroted stuff. Generic observations. Hell, there are four year olds with a bigger vocabulary.

After meeting Fawkes, though, I wonder just how much they know. I wonder if they have a real reason to be fighting us, or if it really is just instinctive, indiscriminate killing.

“I'm lookin' for one of your buddies,” I tell him, and the Super Mutant charges.

Well... I guess they can't all be like my master. If he weren't one-of-a-kind, I probably wouldn't be so interested.

I side-step the charge, duck low from the mutie's swing— _damn that was a close one—_ and leap back. He's roaring; sounds like an angry Brahmin. I flick the knife, cut along the back of his knee. He yelps and stumbles back. Another cut. Blood slides along my knife, loosening my hold, and I dart away as he swings again.

The only reason why I'm still alive is that I'm fast. I don't kid myself; if I get hit by this fucker, I'm dead. Mr. Eulogy and the girls taught me that lesson pretty early on. I'm too tiny to do well in close combat. Just about anyone can knock me out with a hit. My bones are too thin and fragile. I'm too small to be able to take a punch without falling on my ass. Clover and Crimson used to kick the shit out of me in our little scrabbles before I wised up.

If I'm hit, it's over. And fuck knows that neither Dusty nor Kimba are gonna help me out.

Fortunately, Super Mutants are slow as hell. Another three cuts, and the mutie's swaying. When he leans down to try to smash my head open, it's not a far reach for me to take the collar of his armor into my hand. I pull forward, pressing myself against him, hook my legs around his waist.

Enough to give him pause, though I'm not sure why. Could be that he doesn't know what to do with a woman plastering herself to him, could be that he wasn't expecting it and isn't gonna try clubbing himself in the fucking stomach to try to get me off of him.

I wrap one hand around his neck and use the other to slit his throat.

The club falls out of his hands, and he crumples; it's a good thing that he falls backwards and not forwards, or else I'd probably be dead too. The buildings shake around us. _Heavy son of a bitch._

His eyes are closing as I unwind myself, and I pause, with my hand on his chest. Sure, he ain't Fawkes, but he's still similar enough that it makes me a little uneasy. Orange eyes, no neck, fat bald head.

Whatever. _Quit thinking about him, Cara,_ I tell myself. _You'll see him again. That fucker can't be killed by humans that easily._

I don't miss him. That'd be stupid. Fat asshole. I wouldn't miss someone I don't even like. I just need him, even though I don't want to, because he's my master. I can't actually like the person who broke my tether and made me feel all kinds of terrible, shitty things that no person should ever have to feel in their entire lives. I can't like the person who was there when Jericho died.

I can't like him. I can't, because he can never _be_ Jericho.

I sigh, and stand up.

“Cara! You... you alright, down there?”

“I'm fine, Dusty, quit worrying.”

His head appears over the edge of the roof, peering down at me. “I wasn't worried!”

“Sure you weren't,” I drawl. “Even though I'm the only person who can save your ass.”

“Shut up. Is Kimba okay?”

“Dunno,” I shrug. “I'm going for a walk.”

“W-what! But she was shot, she needs help!”

“Then go help her,” I say, and turn around. Behind me, I hear Dusty spluttering, an aggravated _fuck you!_ I don't turn around. To be honest, I don't give a damn. Dusty and Kimba don't mean shit to me. Just means of finding my master.

 

 


	15. Here on the Land and Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A light repose before things go darker than they ever have before.

We've killed enough Super Mutants in the area that I don't feel weird about going off on my own for a walk. Even if I do run across some, I'll hear them way before they hear me. It makes me wonder how heavy they are. From being around Fawkes, I think it must be a lot. You can't make the earth rattle with a single step and be a lightweight.

I wonder when I'll see him again. Some part of me is thinking that he's never gonna come up this way, that maybe there's so much nasty shit that the muties have done that he's just gonna keep traveling around and leave DC altogether. I mean, it's not like this is the only area they're in. From what I'd heard from the slavers, they have pockets of territory stretching from the East to West Coast.

It makes me edgy, restless. I'm already feelin' gross from not having a master to listen to and order me around. Like, I'm thinking too much, but it feels more like the ick that you get when you don't wash in three days and you get greasy and sweaty? Sort of like that. It's uncomfortable and I really just want orders. I ain't going back home to Stockholm though, and I sure as hell ain't about to let Dusty or Kimba hold my leash.

So I walk. It's already early evening, and the days are getting shorter. The stars come out before the sun is fully set, and I like to look up at them while I walk. I stick to the roads, where there's less of a chance to happen upon wild animals or feral ghouls, and watch as dusky pinks fade into lavenders and into a deep, dark blue that gives way into true night.

I don't know how many hours I've walked, or even really where I'm going, save for that I just need to turn around and follow the same road to get back to Bigtown. Won't take too long, I don't think, especially since I was more just meandering anyway. I'm slowing down, appreciating the cooler nighttime temperatures, when I see the smoke.

Smoke in and of itself isn't that big of a deal, not for the wastelands, where brush fires catch constantly in the relentless dryness and heat, but this is a small plume, campfire smoke. Which almost always means humans. Super Mutants tend to not light fires, and ghouls avoid them to try to keep a low profile, so the chances of me finding anything other than a genuine person ahead of me are slim.

I keep the knife in hand, though, as I creep forward. Not sure what I'll find, but it's always good to investigate, right? Plus, I might even be able to ask if anyone's seen Fawkes. _That_ is certainly information that people'd know about. Where he was last seen, shit like that. A Super Mutant amongst humans isn't exactly easy to hide.

I hear a rumbling sigh from behind a rock and I'm thinking that it's a slaver with one of their fucking pet yao guai's, when I realize that the thing I'm approaching isn't a rock.

I startle, glance around—yes, there's the Gatling laser, and when I squint in the dim light I can see the Vault 87 logo on the back of his jacket. The small of his back is bare, uncovered by fabric, and I can see the sweaty smooth bulges of muscle along his spine.

“Fawkes,” I sigh, and something taut and straining deep within me relaxes. Here I'd been trying to be patient, trying not to look for him—all I had to do this whole time was walk a few hours away, and there he is. Has he been camping out in the area all along?

I skip around to the other side of him, to look at his face. He's fast asleep, his eyes closed, breathing peacefully. I think that's it's awfully Fawkes-like of him, to fall asleep with his gun behind him, not even within easy reach. Too trusting. Unsuspecting that someone might creep up behind him and shoot him in his sleep, before he can even roll over and reach for his gun. Amateur mistake.

I glance between him and the smoking fire pit; one arm is supporting his head, the other cast out towards the ashes uselessly.

 _Aha._ I grin, and tilt my head—yes. Yes, there's _just_ enough room.

I kneel, scuffing my knees across the dead grass, and get close enough to Fawkes to touch. Lay down beside him, wriggle forward until my shoulders are under his outstretched arm. I'm brushing against him now, but he doesn't move; I take that as encouragement to nestle in more closely, confident that he won't wake up.

I've been cuddled up with Fawkes before, but the first time I was disoriented and grieving. The second time, I was hysterical and sobbing. Now, I'm relieved. For the first time in a little over a week, I'm at ease. I've got my master pressed up against my skin, and he's healthy and warm and safe. I can appreciate the feeling of him next to me.

I'm still kinda uncomfortable, but I spot a leather bag a few feet away, and I guess I can use that as a pillow. I have to stretch out to snag it with the tips of my fingers, and Fawkes grunts and bares his teeth in his sleep, but he doesn't wake up. I count that as a small victory.

Smiling to myself, I punch the bag into a more comfortable shape, laying the tins of Cram within off to the side, and gaze at the living wall of muscle obscuring my view of the stars. Fawkes is so huge, I can't even see the sky out of the corner of my eyes. I have to turn my head completely to see it over his bulk. It should feel suffocating, but it doesn't, somehow. Maybe it's because I know that if I woke Fawkes up and told him to move over, he would. Either way, instead of getting claustrophobic and afraid, trapped under an arm that probably weighs seventy-five pounds alone, and several hundred pounds of Super Mutant poised to roll over top of me and crush me at any moment—I feel my body relaxing, my eyes closing.

I smile, press my face against Fawkes's chest. My nose is wedged next to his right pectoral; I lift a hand and touch his torso. It's like petting the flank of a Brahmin: strong and hard and unbelievably huge. I can feel his heartbeat beneath my fingertips.

_This is nice._

My eyes close again, and this time they stay shut.

 

* * *

 

_“Darling,” she says, and he reaches out to touch her. He sees his hand extend before him—pale, freckled, with heavy callouses on his fingertips and sparse ginger hair covering the back of his hand. She blinks, and smiles at him._

_She's beautiful. Dark brown hair, beautiful green eyes that gleam like foxfire. Her lips curve mischievously, and captures his index finger between her lips before he can run his fingertips over her cheek._

_This isn't the first time they've lain in bed together, far from it. But his heartbeat still quickens with excitement. He can't help but feel as if this is all just some wonderful fantasy, that he's dreamed her up, imagined this beautiful creature—_

_He gasps and startles, and the sound turns into a groan as she licks and sucks at his fingertip. Releases the digit with a obscenely wet noise and moves on to the next finger. This one, she nibbles at, too, and he feels his hips jerk forward uselessly._

_“Enough,” he says, and pulls her close. The woman laughs, and she presses her face against his bare chest._

_He knows her, though he can't remember her name. And his own identity is fogged too. He knows that she is his wife, and that he loves her. He might not remember anything else about himself; even seeing the color of his own skin is a surprise; but he knows_ this.

_They are in bed together, the sheets strewn over them and tangled in their legs. His hand roams down his wife's body, feeling every curve, relishing the sensation of bare flesh. He kisses her eyelids._

She is beautiful, _he thinks, while he stares at her pleased face. Her eyes are still closed, his hand moving in small circles on the deliciously soft hollow just above her buttocks._

_He has a sudden realization, that he is growing closer to remembering her name the longer he stares, and his brow furrows in concentration. And if he remembers her name, he might remember his. And everything else might fall back into place. He might regain all of these lost years, these remnants of a missing life._

_He is still thinking and struggling to remember while the woman in his arms yawns and snuggles in closer. Her lips curve into a small smile, and he comes to a dawning revelation—he is about to remember—he is about to remember_ everything—

_“Fawkes,” she says, and opens her eyes. They are the darkest sapphire blue he has ever seen._

And Fawkes wakes up.

 

* * *

 

No.

_No!_

Fawkes is still half-asleep, in that dreamless state between reality and nebulous imagination, and he curses himself.

 _Why? Why her?_ Right when he was about to remember...!

His hand clenches, and he is surprised to feel resistance, a warm and slender body beneath his palm. _Am I still dreaming?_ But it is wrong, everything is wrong. His hand spans her entire back. Either the woman he is laying with is the size of a child, or... or he's much, much larger.

_I'm not dreaming._

Fawkes squints against the dim morning light, looks down. Curled up to his chest is a raven-haired woman, each breath leaving soft sighs of warmth against his skin. He's a little alarmed to see how possessively he's cradling her, his palm pressed flat onto her back, holding her firmly against his chest. She couldn't escape if she wanted to.

 _Cara._ What is she doing here? As if she'd been summoned by his thoughts alone, her fragile little calf tucked against his thigh, one arm tucked around her chest protectively and the other resting on his belly.

It feels... good.

Fawkes reels back, alarmed by the thought of taking pleasure from touching Cara; too late he remembers his promise to himself. _I said that I would kill the next human I saw. But Cara..._ she's in his arms, fully trusting him with everything she is. How can he kill her? How can he destroy her trust, when this is likely one of the only times she has trusted _anyone?_

Cara blinks lazily, and Fawkes meets eyes as blue as dark waters under thin ice.

“Good morning, master,” she purrs.

Fawkes clears his throat. “How did you find me?”

“I looked,” she says carelessly. “Did you really think that I was gonna give up on you?”

“I...” he says, and swallows hard. “I left you with Stockholm. What has happened?”

“I told you,” she pouts. “I didn't wanna stay with him. I wanna be with _you.”_

Fawkes feels his heartbeat quicken at her words, and suppresses a groan. It is far too early for this.

“You should not be out here,” he warns. “It is far too dangerous.”

“It's exactly why I should be here,” Cara says. “To protect you.”

Fawkes blinks. Protect _him?_ This tiny woman? He wants to laugh at how ludicrous it seems, but Cara is completely serious.

And then he realizes he's still holding onto her. He pulls away, rolling onto his back, leaving Cara to nestle against his side instead of his chest. _What was he thinking?_ He's not a human anymore. He's a Meta Human. He should be trying to destroy the humans, not trying to figure out how to get Cara home safely.

But then he thinks about how fragile they are. Cara especially, but the men as well. People whose bones would shatter from too firm of a touch, people who live short and pitiful lives, people who cannot even tolerate radiation and survive.

He thinks about Guard. _Pick a side._

It is a difficult choice. If he fights for humanity, it will be against his brothers. He will be giving up on his own people. He will have to fight. He will be forced to kill.

But with Cara beside him, it's hardly a choice at all.

He will fight. For her.

 


	16. One Song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im writing this instead of NaNoWriMo  
> stop me  
> pls

_Ahh._

There's a warm feeling in my chest, as I lay there in the dawn's light with myself pressed against Fawkes's massive body. I feel lighter than I usually do, although I'm unhappy with this position. It's not as comfortable without him on his side, sheltering me from the wind, and I wiggle in irritation as he stays put. He's not saying anything. I guess he's thinking? He looks like he's still awake, anyways. I can't see if his eyes are closed.

I hook a leg around his torso, trying to get more comfy, but he's so huge that the position pulls my whole body off the ground, so that it feels like I'm half on a sofa, on my way to falling off, like some kinda messy drunk.

Fawkes rumbles as I shift my hips; I try keeping one leg thrown over him while still keeping my left asscheek on the ground, but that doesn't work well either; the swell of his hard chest and belly is too steep for me to keep my leg there without engaging my muscles.

“What are you doing?”

“Trying to get comfortable! You aren't good at cuddling,” I accuse.

He rumbles out a laugh, a quiet exhale that runs through his entire body and dislodges me from his side. I'm about ready to complain again, when he reaches over with one massive hand, hooks his fingers under my side, and draws me on top of him.

“Better?”

“Hm.” I sit up, my hands resting on his belly. _He's warm._ Once again, I'm impressed by his stature; he's just a little bit thinner than a single-sized mattress, and twice as thick. It's difficult to even straddle him, he's so broad, and I think it's only due to the fact that his hips are not as wide as his shoulders that I'm able to do so. Even so, with all of my flexibility, it's hard to wrap my legs around him.

His rust-orange eyes are patient as he looks up at me, waiting for my verdict, and I bite my lip as I run my eyes over his body again. His chest rises and falls like a pair of bellows, rocking me up and down with each breath. Lying on his back like this, his Vault jacket is askew; his nipples, small and a darker green than the rest of him, are bared to the morning air.

“I guess,” I answer quickly, and hide my face against his chest before he sees me blush. What's wrong with me? Why is my face so hot? Surely there's nothing to be shy or embarrassed about. He's just a Super Mutant.

Fawkes doesn't seem to notice my distress, and very carefully rests his palm on my back. _Super-Mutant-sized, just like the rest of him._ When he stretches out his fingers, he can close part of his fingers down on my sides—his hands are over half the width of my ribcage.

All he'd have to do is press down, and I'd be crushed to death.

There's something strangely... comforting about that. Not the thought of my painful but immediate demise, but because I know he _won't._ All this strength and muscle wrapped around me, and he's exercising restraint—not holding me too tightly, careful of his own massive strength.

He's... safe.

I want to stay there longer, but the rest of the wasteland isn't as gentle as Fawkes. Laying here together, anyone could come upon us and kill the two of us before we could do a thing.

So even though I don't feel like moving, I squirm a little, and Fawkes moves his hand to let me up.

“Come on,” I say. “I think there's some people you'll want to meet.”

 

* * *

 

Understandably, neither Kimba nor Dusty are very happy to see me. They never are, anyway, and especially not since I left them to deal with Kimba's gunshot wound all own their own, even if there wasn't anything I could do about it.

“You're still alive,” Dusty says as I skip over the bridge. He's sitting in his chair again, rifle in his hands, looking tired. I look at the gray in his hair and wonder if it was there yesterday. Dusty's... not that much older than me. The glint of silver reminds me of Jericho for a brief moment, and I crush the sensation of despair before it overpowers me again. Kimba's nearby, her leg wrapped and stretched out in front of her. It's not splinted, though, so I guess it didn't hit bone when it went through.

“Don't sound so surprised.”

“You didn't come back last night.”

I shrug. “So? Doesn't mean I died. I just met up with a friend.”

Kimba's eyebrows go up. _“You_ have _friends?"_

 _“A_ friend,” I snap. “Singular. You don't need to be a bitch about it. He's here to help.”

Several yards to my right, Fawkes shifts uncomfortably, his shoulders hunched over. I'd told him about the rapidly-decreasing population of Bigtown, and although he wants to help, he's uncertain about meeting with people who have been fucked over by his fellow muties.

Something's happened to him. I don't know what, and I didn't ask him, but his shoulders have been slumped forward all morning, and there's lines on his big ugly face where there were none before. Something in him teeters between hardness and fragility, and I'm not sure how to deal with it.

I can't trust that Dusty and Kimba won't do anything to hurt him though.

_If they break him..._

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, but hell also hasn't seen shit if they don't know that a woman set on revenge for their man isn't the fucking scariest thing in the world.

If those two do anything, I'm going to end them.

I give them my prettiest smile at the thought of disemboweling them and tying their guts into a fuckin' pretzel.

“You... brought help?” Kimba asks slowly, a hint of hope creeping into her voice.

“Yeah. So be nice to him, okay? He's a Super Mutant—”

Dusty flinches.

“—but he's a good one.”

“What?” Dusty bellows. “You brought a _Super Mutant_ here? Are you _crazy?”_

“You can't shoot him,” I argue. “He's nice. He'll get Bittercup back for you, if she's still alive, and if not, well...” I shrug. “At least the muties who've killed the rest will be gone.”

"You've brought him here to kill us," Dusty moans.

I roll my eyes. “Spare me the goddamn theatrics. Fawkes?”

Carefully, my brutish companion straightens, and lumbers to my side. Dusty and Kimba both tense, but I ain't so worried. Dusty's out of ammo, and Kimba isn't really that used to fighting. Dusty's hands are on his weapon, but knowing that it's unloaded makes me a lot more confident. Nothing they have can cut him down.

I decide to stand in front of him anyways.

“Fawkes is my new master,” I tell them. “After Jericho... went away, he took his place.”

It hurts, even just to phrase it that way.

Dusty grunts, eyeing Fawkes. “I'd prefer the old man.”

“Me too,” I say.

My master makes a small noise, and I glance back at him. He looks a little sad, which confuses me. Surely he doesn't think that I'd choose Fawkes over Jericho? After he broke my leash and taught me to feel pain that I'd never dreamed of?

 _Calm down,_ I tell myself. What's done is done. Moping won't bring back my lover, and I'm slowly realizing that even with all his faults, being mad at Fawkes is mostly pointless.

I'm being fucking ungrateful, and I give myself a mental slap. Mr. Eulogy taught me gratitude. Oh boy, if he could see me now, I'd be whipped til I was crying. Nothing to break the skin, of course. He was always so careful to keep me unmarred. But I'd be a mess of drugs and sensitive, reddened flesh, tortured and starved. He'd teach me to be grateful again.

I remind myself of what's important. My master is alive, and he's safe. I should be happy that I found him at all. That dumb fuck was asleep with his gun at his back in the middle of the wastes. If I hadn't come that evening, what might have instead? I could be out a master. Again.

“He's a good one, though,” I insist. “He's gonna help.”

Dusty grimaces, and finally, after swallowing hard, meets Fawkes's gaze. “You aren't going to eat us?”

“No,” Fawkes rumbles. “I would not. I would never. What are your names?”

They introduce themselves, hesitantly, and after a few more minutes I feel confident enough in their relaxing postures to step away, to Fawkes's side instead of before him. Their conversation drifts in and out of my ears. I'm looking at my master's hands, remembering how they pressed against my spine. I reach for him without thinking. Two of his fingers fit comfortably in my grasp. The rest of his hand is too large to hold.

He looks down at me, startled.

I let go, cringing. “Sorry.”

_I don't know if Fawkes likes to be touched. I think he does, maybe, but what if that's only when we're alone? I've never touched him in front of other people. Jericho always hated that. Jericho thought it was weak—_

Fawkes places one massive palm on my back, and draws me to his side.

 

 

 


End file.
